#so i can say for sure it's coming out tomorrow!

[harrysfolklore]

grid dad - mv1

summary: max decides accidentally adopts the 2025 rookies and his life becomes chaos

folkie radio: HERE IT IS!! i thought it was super late to post this but you guys wanted it so i finished it! i hope you like it

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

liked by maxverstappen1, olliebearman and 198,635 others

yourinstagram hosted our rookie dinner tonight because someone had to adopt these kids before the season starts 😂 @/maxverstappen1 trying to teach them the racing line around our dinner table while I'm just making sure they're all fed properly. good luck this season boys! ❤️

tagged: maxverstappen1, olliebearman, isackhadjar, kimi.antonelli, gabrielbortoleto_, jackdoohan

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username1 OMFG THIS ???

username2 max casually having all the kids over help me

maxverstappen1 They're already asking when they can come back for dinner 🤦‍♂️

username3 MY HEART 😭 mama yn and papa max adopting all the rookies i can't

username4 the way he's actually becoming the dad of the grid at 27 💀

username5 max going from youngest driver to grid dad is the character development we love to see

kimi.antonelli best pasta i've ever had outside of italy!! grazie mille

lando this is so unfair, where was my rookie dinner in 2019??

username6 STOP this is the wholesomeness we needed before melbourne 🥹

username7 giving me flashbacks to when seb used to adopt the younger drivers

isackhadjar thanks racing mum and dad 😌🏎️

jackdoohan catch me sneaking back in for leftovers tomorrow 👀

alex_albon @/georgerussell63 remember when we just got a RedBull and good luck text?

username8 NOT THE 2019 ROOKIES GETTING JEALOUS

username9 max really just adopted them all ??? hello!!

olliebearman thank you for everything! ready for the season now 💪

gabrielbortoleto_ such an amazing evening! grateful for the advice and the food was 🔥

username10 THE 2025 ROOKIES ARE SO LOVED

f1 The Class of 2025 getting the VIP treatment 🤩

liked by username1, username2 and 15,037 others

f1updates Max Verstappen reveals the 2025 rookies have become regular visitors at his home after his girlfriend invited them for a pre-season dinner

"Yeah, it's quite funny actually. My girlfriend invited them all over and now they just keep showing up. Antonelli's always asking for her pasta recipe, Bearman raids our fridge like it's his own house... Doohan's basically moved into our guest room at this point."

"It's nice though, they're good kids. They ask a lot of questions about racing, but mostly we just hang out. YN loves it, she's always making sure they're eating properly and stuff. I think she'll be screenshotting their race results like a proud mom"

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username1 NOT MAX BECOMING A GRID DAD AT 27

username2 the way he pretends to be annoyed but we know he loves it 🥺

username3 ollie living his best life raiding their fridge i'm crying

username3 kimi antonelli getting that family support AND pasta recipes? unstoppable

username4 max and yn collecting f1 children like pokemon and we're here for it

username5 the way he's actually proud of them 🥺 dad max era

username6 most unexpected wholesome f1 moment of 2025 already

username7 remember when max was the youngest driver? now look at him being grid dad

username8 WHY IS THIS SO CUTE LIKE THOSE ARE HIS KIDS

username9 i just know yn will be cheering for them at every race like a proud mom

username10 WHAT IF I CRY RN

liked by yourinstagram, jackdoohan and 1,094,483 others

maxverstappen1 Ready for Melbourne. Had a good winter break

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username1 2025 WDC ALREADY

kimi.antonelli thanks for the setup tips dad 😎

yourinstagram our kids are so talented 🥹

username2 HELP THE ROOKIES JUST INVADED THEIR HOUSE AND NEVER LEFT 😭

username3 not antonelli calling him dad i'm deceased

olliebearman fifa rematch when we're back? still saying you cheated

jackdoohan THANKS MUM AND DAD

isackhadjar best preseason prep ever 🙌

username4 the way this isn't even weird anymore, just max and his 5 adopted children

gabrielbortoleto_ those pancakes changed my life ngl

lando this is getting ridiculous, i'm moving in too

username5 yn collecting f1 sons every time max turns his back

username6 THIS IS THE WHOLESOME CONTENT WE DESERVE

username7 horner somewhere punching the air watching max parent the entire rookie class

username8 LANDO IS STILL COMPLAINING HELP

username9 the fifa tournaments at their house must be INTENSE

username10 THOSE ARE MAX'S SONS

username11 he really posted a picture with his girlfriend and pictures of their grid kids 😭 IM YELLING

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liked by maxverstappen1, lilymhe and 202,483 others

yourinstagram race day! good luck to my boyfriend and our... five adopted children 😂 still wondering how this happened but wouldn't have it any other way. make mama proud boys! ❤️ @/maxverstappen1 @/kimi.antonelli @/olliebearman @/jackdoohan @/isackhadjar @/gabrielbortoleto_

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username1 IM CRYING THOSE ARE THEIR CHILDREN

username2 the ducklings !!!

maxverstappen1 They're asking if we can have pizza night after the race 🤦‍♂️

kimi.antonelli grazie racing mom!

olliebearman promise not to crash dad's car 😇

jackdoohan home race AND family support, let's go!

isackhadjar thanks mom 🥹

gabrielbortoleto_ best racing parents ever ❤️

lando petition to be adopted too?

username3 NOT THEM ACTUALLY CALLING THEM MOM AND DAD NOW

username4 the way this started as a dinner and ended with 5 new family members

username5 ollie promising not to crash "dad's" car HELP ME 💀

username6 yn really said "i have 5 children now"

username7 mercedes wondering why their rookie keeps disappearing to verstappen family dinners

username8 the most wholesome timeline we never knew we needed

username9 verstappen family collection: ✅ max ✅ yn ✅ 5 rookies ✅ probably lando soon

username10 imagine telling someone in 2015 that rookie max would become f1's dad

liked by username1, username2 and 4,985 others

f1shitpost MAX'S FACE WHEN THEY TOOK KIMI. THAT'S HIS SON

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username1 the way max's face went 😦 -> 😳 -> 🥺

username2 they're interrupting their father-son time

username3 HEEEEEEELP THIS IS TOO FUNNY

username4 mercedes pr trying to prevent the adoption papers from being signed

username5 the way he immediately went to isack after this

username6 help why is this the most wholesome thing ever 😭

username7 the other rookies watching like "one of us, one of us"

username8 YN IS PROBABLY YELLING AT THIS

username9 he's taking the dad role way too seriously

username10 THATS A FATHER

liked by maxverstappen1, yourinstagram and 498,055 others

isackhadjar Not the way I wanted my first F1 race to go... but that's racing sometimes. Learning from it and moving forward. Thanks Max & YN for the emergency comfort dinner and pep talk (the cake was fire). Having the best support system helps a lot ❤️ On to the next one!

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username1 STOOOOOP THIS IS SO SWEET

username2 mom and dad to the rescue

yourinstagram always here for you sweetie! you'll come back stronger next weekend

maxverstappen1 Good weekend until the issue. We'll look at the data tomorrow 💪

kimi.antonelli next one will be better bro!

olliebearman you did great mate! also yn's cake fixes everything trust me

lando this family thing is getting out of hand... (yn can i have cake too?)

username3 NOT THE COMFORT DINNER FROM RACING PARENTS 😭

username4 yn really said "my son dnf'd? emergency cake needed"

username5 YN CALLING HIM SWEETIE AND MAX SAYING THEY'RE GOING TO REVIEW THE DATA? MY HEART THOSE ARE HIS PARENTS

username6 the way they all immediately gathered for support dinner 🥺

username7 verstappen family therapeutic cake session: activated

username8 my boy got the best racing parents fr 😌

username9 max analyzing data while yn bakes comfort food, perfect parenting

username10 most wholesome post-DNF recovery ever

username11 yn's cake solving all f1 problems one slice at a time

username12 lando still trying to get adopted in the comments HELP

liked by yourinstagram, maxverstappen1 and 509,755 others

olliebearman P8!!! First F1 points in the bag! 🙌 Found this note in my driver room this morning and it gave me the extra push. Thanks @/maxverstappen1 and @/yourinstagram for being the best racing parents and sneaking into Hass to leave it 😂 Also mega racing from my bros today!Great weekend ❤️

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username1 AHHHH FIRST OLLIEPOINTS

username2 UMMM THIS IS SO SWEET??

yourinstagram SO PROUD OF YOU! 🥳 (also don't tell how we got into the garage)

maxverstappen1 Good job kid 💪 Now about that overtake attempt on lap 32...

kimi.antonelli my bro killing it! (but seriously how did they get past haas security)

isackhadjar crushing it bro! save me some celebration cake

gabrielbortoleto_ first of many points! 🙌 (yn's ninja skills are scary ngl)

username3 YN AND MAX SNEAKING HAAS TO LEAVE PARENT NOTES I'M DYING 😭

username4 the most supportive illegal garage entry ever

username5 THEY REALLY BROKE INTO HAAS FOR THEIR SON I CAN'T

username6 most dedicated racing parents award goes to...

username7 the note is actually so sweet though 🥺

username8 verstappen family really said "security who?"

username9 IM SOBBING THOSE REALLY ARE THEIR KIDSSSS

username10 I LOVE THIS LORE SM

liked by maxverstappen1, kimi.antonelli and 301,054 others

yourinstagram WHAT A DAY! 🎊 super proud of dad for the win (as always) but seeing three of our kids score points?? mom's heart can't take it 😭❤️@/kimi.antonelli P6, @/isackhadjar P8, and @/olliebearman P10 - YOU'RE ALL DOING AMAZING! @/jackdoohan and @/gabrielbortoleto_ your time is coming soon babies! now time to stuff everyone with celebration sushi

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username1 I LOVE THIS SO MUCH

username2 MAX AND HIS KIDDOS

maxverstappen1 They're fighting over the last california roll as we speak 🤦‍♂️

kimi.antonelli best racing family ever 🫶 (i won the sushi battle btw)

olliebearman thanks mom!! also kimi definitely cheated for that roll

isackhadjar perfect day with the family ❤️

jackdoohan next race is mine! (save me some sushi pls)

gabrielbortoleto_ points loading... also who filmed kimi's sushi heist

lando this family content is getting out of hand (but can i come for sushi?)

alex_albon mate why wasn't there family sushi in my day 😫

username3 NOT YN CALLING THE WIN "DAD" AND THE POINTS "OUR KIDS" 😭

username4 the way she's actually more excited about the rookies than max's win help

username5 verstappen family sushi war is sending me 💀

username6 yn collecting champion boyfriend and point-scoring children

username7 toto sharing custody with max and yn wasn't on my 2025 bingo card

username8 jack and gabriel getting the "your time is coming babies" treatment 🥺

username9 isack really secured points AND family dinner we love to see it

username10 THE VERSTAPPEN FAMILY IS SO TALENTED

username11 lando trying to get adopted in the comments AGAIN 😭

liked by yourinstagram, olliebearman and 976,387 others

maxverstappen1 When you're on a two week break from F1 and want a nice time at home with your girlfriend but your 5 adopted kids refuse to leave the house... 🤦‍♂️ At least they're getting better at FIFA (still not better than me though)

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username1 IM DYING

username2 THIS IS SO REAL

yourinstagram you love it really 😘 (also kimi and gabe are banned from my kitchen after that pasta incident)

kimi.antonelli this is our house too now, no take backs

olliebearman jack's been hogging the sim for 2 hours, this is favoritism

jackdoohan not my fault i'm fastest

isackhadjar your couch is just really comfortable okay

gabrielbortoleto_ the pasta wasn't THAT bad...

lando might join the invasion tomorrow 👀

charles_leclerc mate your house is literally turning into a rookie daycare

username3 HELP THEY'VE LITERALLY JUST MOVED IN 😭

username4 max pretending to be annoyed while actually loving it: a series

username5 the pasta incident?? we need details 👀

username6 yn collecting children while max pretends to protest

username7 BEST THING ABOUT THE 2025 SEASON

username8 breaking: 5 f1 rookies stage permanent occupation of verstappen residence

username9 ollie really said "this is our house" the confidence 😭

username10 most expensive f1 daycare service

username11 "the pasta wasn't THAT bad" WHAT DID THEY DO

username12 max's villain to dad arc is actually complete

username13 yn somewhere: finally, i have all the children 😌

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liked by username1, username2 and 10,483 others

f1gossip Spotted: Fighting for dad's attention again... Kimi and Gabriel arguing over who gets Max's feedback before the race 😭

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username1 the way max is actually trying to listen to both of them at once 😭

username2 yn in the back like "my children are embarrassing me again"

username3 HELP WHY ARE THEY ACTUALLY FIGHTING LIKE SIBLINGS

username4 THOSE ARE HIS KIDS FR

username5 kimi really said forget mercedes i need dad's opinion first

username6 ollie watching this like "amateurs, i already got my feedback during lunch"

username7 yn collecting more chaotic children by the minute

username8 I BET LANDO IS STILL JEALOUS OF THIS

username9 jack somewhere taking notes on how to get feedback without the fight

username10 the way max is actually giving equal attention to both 😭 dad skills on point

username11 toto watching his rookie choose max's feedback over merc engineers

username12 gabe really speed walking to beat kimi to max HELP

username13 remember when max was the youngest driver? now he's managing kid fights

username14 the way yn is just accepting this chaos now

liked by maxverstappen1, jackdoohan and 409,386 others

yourinstagram this isn't goodbye, it's just a new chapter ❤️ So proud of how you're handling this @/jackdoohan. you're still our kid and this house is still your home (yes, even the sim room 😉). the racing world hasn't seen the last of you, and until then, you've got your whole family behind you. love you lots sweetheart 🫶 also @/francolapinto welcome to the family, dinner's at 7!

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username1 THIS IS SO SWEET OMG

username2 SHE SAID THATS OUR KID FOREVER

maxverstappen1 The sim is always open for you. We've got work to do 💪

jackdoohan love you mom ❤️ thanks for everything

olliebearman our brother forever 🫶 (also i'm still slower than you in the sim)

kimi.antonelli family sticks together no matter what

isackhadjar we've got your back bro!

gabrielbortoleto_ you're stuck with us forever

francolapinto thank you for the welcome! (slightly nervous about joining this family 😅)

lando proper family you've got there. i still feel excluded

username3 NOT ME CRYING AT YN'S MOM ENERGY 😭

username4 "you're still our kid" I'M NOT OKAY

username5 yn really said "my kid lost his seat but not his family"

username6 jack still having his racing family is everything

username7 franco getting adopted before he even starts HELP

username8 most supportive racing family award goes to...

username9 "yes, even the sim room" knowing that's where he spends most time 🥺

username10 this family really sticks together no matter what

username11 franco about to learn what it means to join this family

username12 "dinner's at 7" yn adopting the replacement immediately

username13 the way they're making sure he knows nothing changes

username14 most wholesome f1 family doesn't exi-

username15 franco watching these comments like "what am i getting into"

username16 this isn't a racing family anymore it's a FAMILY family 🥺

liked by yourinstagram, maxverstappen1 and 601,287 others

isackhadjar when @/olliebearman leaves his phone behind so max can take a pic with his actual favorite kid 😌

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username1 HELPPP ME

username2 MAX SELFIE ALERT

olliebearman DELETE THIS RIGHT NOW. also we all know I'M the favorite 😤

yourinstagram both of you are grounded.

maxverstappen1 Neither of you are the favorite. It's kimi.

kimi.antonelli AS IT SHOULD BE 😌

gabrielbortoleto_ this family meeting is about to get spicy...

lando still trying to figure out how max ended up with 6 children and i'm not one of them

username3 MAX ADMITTING THAT KIMI IS HIS FAVORITE JUST LIKE THAT HEEEEEEELP

username4 THE FAVORITE CHILD DRAMA I'M CRYING 😭

username5 yn having to parent a favorite child fight was not on my 2025 bingo card

username6 ollie somewhere sprinting back to get his phone

username7 max choosing chaos by saying kimi is the favorite HELP

username8 kimi really won the favorite child battle without even trying

username9 yn about to give the "i love all my children equally" speech

username10 isack really started a civil war with one post

username11 yn somewhere preparing the "we don't have favorites" lecture

username12 gabi just getting the popcorn ready for the drama

liked by francolapinto, maxverstappen1 and 401,376 others

yourinstagram last but definitely not least of our 2025 rookies making his debut! @/francolapinto you've worked so hard for this moment sweetheart ❤️ the whole family is so proud already. jack left you his lucky charm (yes I saw that), the boys have been sharing all their rookie race tips, and dad's already got your data analyzed. now go show them what you've got! also stop being nervous about family dinners, you're stuck with us now

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username1 MELTING AGAIN

username2 THEY JUST TOOK FRANCO TOO

francolapinto thanks mom 🥺❤️ (the note made me cry btw)

maxverstappen1 Remember what we discussed about turn 1. You've got this 💪

jackdoohan lucky charm worked for me, now it's your turn mate

olliebearman youngest sibling energy let's go 🔥

kimi.antonelli show them how it's done franco!

isackhadjar family's newest rookie about to kill it

lando this family keeps growing and i'm still not in it

username3 max and yn collecting another child: complete

username4 "stop being nervous about family dinners" WHY IS THIS SO CUTE

username5 franco went from replacement to beloved youngest child so fast

username6 yn's mom powers activated immediately for the new rookie

username7 newest verstappen family member making his debut

username8 all the siblings sharing rookie tips is actually so sweet

username9 jack supporting his replacement like a true big brother 😭

username10 "dad's already got your data analyzed" most supportive racing parents

username11 max is really a softie for this kids fr

username12 lando still trying to get adopted in the comments HELP

username13 most wholesome grid family keeps expanding

liked by lando, maxverstappen1 and 578,394 others

gabrielbortoleto_ Some Spain prep in the sim 💪 Getting those lines perfect for next week.

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username1 HELP IS THAT MAX'S SIM ROOM??? THE HELMET IN THE BACK 😭

username2 the way he's just casually posting from max's house like it's normal

username3 this man really said "sim prep" like we can't see max's entire setup 💀

username4 they've actually never left that house have they

lando you guys really never leave do you

username5 LANDO IS JEALOUS WE CAN TELL

yourinstagram dinner's at 7 sweetie 🫶

maxverstappen1 I still live here too you know 🤦‍♂️

username6 bro posted from casa verstappen like we wouldn't notice

username7 "the sim" sir that's your dad's gaming room

kimi.antonelli It's my turn with the sim

username8 NOT THEM FIGHTING OVER THE SIM

username9 they really just live there now and think we don't know

username10 at this point do they even have their own houses

username11 yn somewhere baking more cookies for her permanent residents

username12 not even trying to hide that they've moved in permanently 😭

liked by maxverstappen1, kimi.antonelli and 605,976 others

yourinstagram MY BOYS!!! 😭❤️ @/kimi.antonelli getting his first podium AND @/maxverstappen1 right there to celebrate with him - mom's heart is exploding! so proud of both of you! (and yes I cried, a lot) also all the other kids running to the podium to celebrate their brother's first podium? this family i swear

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username1 IM SOBBING

username2 THIS FATHER AND SON

maxverstappen1 Super proud today 👏👏

kimi.antonelli thanks mom and dad 🥺❤️ (yn you didn't have to cry THAT much though)

olliebearman my turn next! also kimi you owe us dinner now

gabrielbortoleto_ podium celebration was worth the paddock pass violation

isackhadjar nothing can stop us from celebrating family wins

username3 MAX THE PROUD DAD

username4 yn crying more than kimi at his first podium is peak mom energy

username5 the way all the siblings broke paddock rules to celebrate

username6 security watching 4 f1 drivers sprint to their brother's podium

username7 toto watching his driver celebrate with the competition family again

username8 yn really crying like it's her biological son's first podium 😭

username9 THE WAY THEY ALL RUSHED TO CELEBRATE WITH HIM

username10 most chaotic podium celebration

username11 them breaking rules just to celebrate together is everything

username12 from max's rival team to max's son real quick

username13 most wholesome father-son podium in f1 history

liked by maxverstappen1, yourinstagram and 1,029,588 others

lando since max and yn won't let me join the family, i'm stealing some of the kids. taking these three to the f1 movie premiere while their dad's stuck in simulator duties

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username1 HEEEEELP

username2 I LOVE LANDO SM

yourinstagram take care of my babies! 🥺 and make sure they don't stay up too late, they have duties tomorrow! also ollie needs his allergy meds and gabe gets cranky if he doesn't eat every 3 hours and franco gets nervous in crowds so keep him close! text me when you land! ❤️

maxverstappen1 Bring them back in one piece Norris

olliebearman WE'RE NOT BABIES (but yes i packed my meds)

gabrielbortoleto_ already hungry tbh

francolapinto sticking to lando like glue don't worry mom

kimi.antonelli this is favoritism, why wasn't i invited 😤

username3 YN'S MOM INSTRUCTIONS IN THE COMMENTS 😭

username4 lando really kidnapped 3 verstappen kids

username5 yn listing care instructions like they're toddlers HELP

username6 max stuck in sim while lando takes his kids out

username7 "ollie needs his allergy meds" WHY IS THIS SO FUNNY

username8 lando finally got into the family through uncle status

username9 "gabe gets cranky if he doesn't eat every 3 hours" EXPOSED

username10 THE ROOKIES + LANDO I LOVE THEM SO MUCH

username12 most expensive babysitting job in monaco

username13 lando finally found his way into the family 😭

liked by username1, username2 and 10,986 others

f1gossip SPOTTED: Max Verstappen and YN finally getting alone time on their yacht in St. Tropez!

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username1 THE ROOKIES ACTUALLY LET THEM HAVE A VACATION ALONE??? 😱

username2 breaking news: f1's busiest parents get a break

username3 somewhere in monaco 6 drivers are probably burning down the house

username4 first documented evidence of max and yn without children in 2025

username4 checking ig stories to make sure the house is still standing

username5 the kids finally let mom and dad have a date 😭

username6 I KNOW THE ROOKIES ARE CRYING BC THEY DIDN'T TAKE THEM

username7 most shocking f1 2025 news: verstappen parents spotted without children

username8 guarantee yn is still texting them every hour to check in

username9 max and yn experiencing peace and quiet for first time this year

username10 casa verstappen probably in chaos while parents are away

username11 who's taking bets on how long before one of them calls

username12 lando somewhere offering emergency uncle services

username13 giving it 24 hours before they rush home to check on their children 😭

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liked by maxverstappen1, isackhadjar and 613,029 others

yourinstagram 48 hours of actual peace and quiet with @/maxverstappen1. no sim schedule, no driver coaching, no chaos... just us (already missing our chaos though 🥺)

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username1 MY PARENTS ACTUALLY

username2 they really left all the rookies at home help

kimi.antonelli mom please come back the kitchen is... concerning

kimi.antonelli unrelated but how do you get pasta off the ceiling

olliebearman franco tried cooking, it didn't end well

gabrielbortoleto_ this is betrayal

jackdoohan guys stop snitching on each other in the comments 🤦‍♂️ but also yn the washing machine is making weird noises

francolapinto didn't start the kitchen situation, that was ollie. also we miss you 🥺

maxverstappen1 We're never going home, the kids can find a new foster home

username3 THE KIDS FALLING APART WITHOUT THEM AFTER 2 DAYS

username4 six f1 drivers vs basic household tasks: a saga

username5 "how do you get pasta off the ceiling" HELP

username6 they really can't survive 48 hours without mom and dad

username7 max and yn enjoying peace while their house burns down

username8 GET BACK TO THE KIDS

username9 them snitching on each other in the comments 😭

username10 yn reading these comments while booking next flight home

username11 professional athletes vs washing machine: washing machine winning

username12 "franco tried cooking" immediate evacuation needed

username13 max really said we're never going back 😭

username14 yn's notifications just: HELP HELP HELP HELP

liked by yourinstagram, lando and 1,094,593 others

maxverstappen1 Back to usual programming... Google search: how to kick 6 Formula 1 drivers out of my house? (Asking for a friend)

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username1 HELP MEEE

username2 THATS THEIR DAD

kimi.antonelli you'd miss us after 5 minutes

olliebearman we pay rent in entertainment

gabrielbortoleto_ you literally adopted us first

isackhadjar too late we have keys now

francolapinto who else would eat all your food?

jackdoohan you love us and you know it

lando make it 7 i'm coming over

yourinstagram babe you were literally just showing their baby photos to horner yesterday

username3 YN EXPOSING MAX SHOWING OFF BABY PHOTOS 😭

username4 "we pay rent in entertainment" they really do though

username5 max pretending he doesn't love the chaos

username6 man went from world champion to full time dad real quick

username7 "too late we have keys now" HELP 💀

username8 max's retirement plan: adopting every rookie

username9 yn exposing max's proud dad moments in the comments

username10 max acting like he doesn't love being everyone's dad

username11 man really adopted half the grid and is pretending to regret it

username12 FRANCO WITH NINO IM CRYING

liked by username1, username2 and 15,974 others

f1updates SPOTTED: Ollie Bearman caught sneaking into Red Bull garage to steal energy drinks... again. Dad's drinks hit different apparently

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username1 naur why he sneaking around like his dad doesn't LITERALLY DRIVE FOR THEM 😭

username2 caught in 4k trying to steal from his own family's garage HELP

username3 not him acting like a whole spy for some red bull

username4 the way he could've just asked max but chose crime instead

username5 he just wanted to see his dad

username6 THEY REALLY CANT STAY AWAY FROM MAX

username7 the way he's literally part of the family but still sneaking around

username8 times ollie's been caught stealing rb drinks: 27

username9 max's child getting caught robbing his workplace is peak 2025

username10 he wanted the family discount but forgot to ask first 💀

username11 max come get ur kid he's stealing from work again

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liked by olliebearman, maxverstappen1 and 1,344,982 others

f1 Stefano's dinner for the drivers ! ❤️

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username1 the seating arrangements exposing the family favorites 💀

username2 kimi really secured the spot next to dad

username3 ollie at the other end like a disowned child HELP

username4 max keeping the good kids close and sending ollie to timeout with oscar

username5 kimi won the favorite child competition and it shows

username6 the favoritism is real and we have photo evidence

username7 ollie being exiled to the other end for crimes against red bull garage

username8 max keeping his well behaved children close and ollie in australian timeout

username9 kimi strategically claiming the favorite child spot

username10 ollie watching kimi get the prime spot: 🧍‍♂️

username11 the three good children got front row seats

username12 consequences of stealing red bull: banishment to oscar's end

username13 seating chart exposing family dynamics

lando at least ollie has oscar to console him 💀

olliebearman THIS IS LITERALLY BULLYING

kimi.antonelli earned my spot fair and square 😌

yourinstagram maybe if someone hadn't been caught stealing from the garage...

maxverstappen1 Good children get good seats 🤷‍♂️

oscarpiastri don't worry @/olliebearman we'll start our own family

f1world 24 hours after defending Bortoleto in press conference, Max Verstappen helps Gabriel in quali. Bortoleto makes Q3 for the first time thanks to Max giving him tows on track. Proud dad energy radiating from Red Bull garage 👀

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username1 journalist really made max activate super dad mode

username2 NOT HIM LITERALLY GOING TO HELP AFTER THAT PRESS CONFERENCE 💀

username3 THATS MAX'S SON FR

username4 max said talk shit about my kids and watch what happens

username5 man took "and i took that personally" to another level

username6 journalist accidentally unleashed father verstappen

username7 max really said watch me fix this real quick

username8 HELP HE LITERALLY WENT TO PROVE THEM WRONG

username9 max choosing violence via parent mode

username10 journalist opened their mouth and max chose dad revenge

username11 fastest parent response time in f1 history

username12 max: and here's what my children can do actually

username13 "disappointing? let me show you something"

username14 man took criticism of his kids personally and did something about it

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by maxverstappen1, isackhadjar and 603,597 others

yourinstagram mixed emotions kind of day... but mostly just proud ❤️ our little family had its first racing incident (they're fine, already hugged it out before even leaving the track) and... GABE GOT HIS FIRST POINTS! P8! 🎉

the way maxie went straight from his DNF to watching gabe's race from our garage... my heart 😭 mow time for celebration dinner (yes kimi, you're still invited, stop texting asking if you're grounded)

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username1 MY FAVORITE FAMILY

username2 THEY'RE EVERYTHING TO ME ACTUALLY

maxverstappen1 Never missing a kid's first points even if i have to watch from the garage

gabrielbortoleto_ best racing parents ever 🥺❤️

kimi.antonelli thanks for not grounding me mom

isackhadjar family dinner about to be wild

olliebearman gabe finally joining the points club 🎉

username3 NOT KIMI ASKING IF HE'S GROUNDED 😭

username4 max dnf'ing and still being proud dad we love to see it

username5 the way they're actually parenting these grown men

username6 "stop texting asking if you're grounded" I'M CRYING

username7 max watching from garage after dnf is peak dad behavior

username8 most wholesome f1 family fr

username9 their parenting energy is too powerful

username10 gabe getting his first points on family drama day

username11 max going from dnf to proud dad mode instantly

username12 tried for drama, got wholesome family content instead

liked by yourinstagram, kimi.antonelli and 1,274,599 others

maxverstappen1 We might have racing incidents, but these 6 are still my kids (even though they keep crashing my romantic dinners, stealing my drinks, and never letting me have alone time with my girlfriend) 🤷‍♂️❤️ Proud of everyone today. Yes, even you @/kimi.antonelli, stop sending apology memes now

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username1 SOFT MAXIEEEE

username2 im crying so bad

kimi.antonelli 🥺 sends another apology meme

olliebearman we crash dinners out of love

gabrielbortoleto_ best day with best family ❤️

isackhadjar you love us really

francolapinto we make life interesting admit it

jackdoohan family chaos is our brand

lando still waiting for my adoption papers

yourinstgarm OUR KIDS FOREVER 🥺

username3 "stop sending apology memes" HELP

username4 complaining about no alone time while enabling it

username5 kimi sending apology memes is killing me

username6 man really adopted 6 drivers and acts surprised they're around

username7 "we crash dinners out of love" I'M CRYING

username8 pretending to want peace while collecting children

username9 days since max last complained about his chaos: 0 days since he enabled it: also 0

username10 THOSE ARE HIS BIOLOGICAL CHILDREN

username11 man gave everyone keys then acts shocked they show up

username12 "these 6 are my kids" THE ACCEPTANCE STAGE

[thehoneybeestings]

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞!𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐱 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Word Count: 1k Content/Warnings: nsfw, porn w no/little plot, brothel worker!reader x service top!sev, bottom!reader, fem reader (no anatomy mentioned), masochist!reader, traffic light system A/N: based on this post! credits to @no1jinxer for the idea! it's in the name; sev is high on shimmer fucks the shit out of you. enjoy <3

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐁𝐞𝐞 ୨ৎ

──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

୨ৎ Sevika on Shimmer, who usually refuses to set foot into the brothel under the influence of its effects 

୨ৎ But tonight, she’s got a job to do

୨ৎ She’s been tracking a rival chem-baron for a few weeks now, and it hadn’t taken her long to figure out that he frequented the brothel

୨ৎ So, she struck up a deal with Babette; “I’ll pay you and your girls double for the next three months if you’ll give me a ring the next time he shows up.”

୨ৎ “You’d pay me twice to see Y/n, anyway,” Babette scoffs; but ultimately, they shake on it, and the rest is a waiting game

୨ৎ When Babette does give her the call, she’s there in less than 10 minutes, and he’s dead in less than five

୨ৎ She doesn’t typically let work get personal, but when she’d heard from a few of Babette’s girls that this chem-baron tended to get a bit too rough with them, it was hard not to let anger fuel the job more than she typically would

୨ৎ And as soon as he’s been taken care of, she makes her rounds, peeking her head into every open door to ensure that everyone’s okay

୨ৎ When she makes it to you, she releases a breath she didn’t know she was holding upon finding you arranging pillows on the velvet couch, unassuming as ever

୨ৎ “Hey, doll,” she sighs. “You okay in here?”

୨ৎ You’re calling her name in excitement before you can help it, head whipping around to look at her; and when you do, you find her in a state you’ve never seen; only heard of 

୨ৎ Her copper arm hums with energy, working hard to circulate the unmistakable glow of shimmer through its workings and into her bloodstream

୨ৎ Her scar glows with the same hue, glittering like hot coals of magenta

୨ৎ And her eyes; lilac pulses in their irises, her gaze even more alluring now than it usually is

୨ৎ  You don’t realize your own eyes have gone wide until she breaks the silence with a voice raspy from exertion 

୨ৎ “I know,” she begins, almost apologetically, “I don’t normally let folks see me like this unless they’re about to get their shit rocked-”

୨ৎ “It’s okay,” you quickly interrupt, shaking your head. “I mean, I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

୨ৎ She nods tentatively 

୨ৎ “Okay… and you’re alright?”

୨ৎ “I’m just fine, Vika. Come, sit,”

୨ৎ And when you take a step forward, she takes one back

୨ৎ “Listen… I can’t ask you for anything tonight. Not when I’m still riled up.”

୨ৎ You don’t take another step forward, but your eyes stay locked onto hers, your voice steady

୨ৎ “Do you want something?” 

୨ৎ She scoffs, dark lips stretching up into a wicked grin

୨ৎ “Baby, it’s you. Of course I do, but I don’t wanna hurt ya.” 

୨ৎ She doesn’t miss the way your lips quirk up into a smirk of their own

୨ৎ “Three months of comin’ to see me… and you haven't figured out that I like a little pain?”

୨ৎ Her face falls- morphs into something serious, something dangerous- and she raises her brows in a silent inquiry:

୨ৎ ‘You sure you know what you’re asking for?’

୨ৎ The cock of your own brow in return says:

୨ৎ ‘You have no idea.’

──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

୨ৎ Sevika on Shimmer, who never would have thought such a sweet thing like you would turn out to be such a masochist

୨ৎ And when you’re begging like that for her to mark you up, throw you around, leave you sore… what kind of service top would she be to deny you?

୨ৎ Eventually, she starts showing up with an extra cartridge of shimmer, loving the way you go dumb for her when she triggers it and fucks you into tomorrow

୨ৎ It takes her a while to get comfortable with being as rough as you want her to be, not because she doesn’t want to, but because the last thing she wants is to hurt you in a way that suddenly isn’t fun anymore

୨ৎ But, just as always, you’re more than patient, and make her feel more than safe to explore this new facet of her time spent with you

୨ৎ She’ll bite down, and you say harder, she’ll pull your hair, and you say rougher, she fucks you deep, and you say deeper; until she knows just how limp you really want to be by the end of the night

୨ৎ And she has to admit; it’s nice

୨ৎ Really nice

୨ৎ She’s usually already pent up from the bullshit of her day’s work when she comes to see you, but when she’s pent up and wired off the purple substance flooding her system?

୨ৎ She can’t deny that blowing off all that steam in the form of ravaging you is quite the gift you've given her

୨ৎ Of course, Sevika still will not sleep with you if she’s too high to rein herself in the moment you need her to, and as much as she checks in with you when she’s not using it, expect twice the requests for your color and triple the orders to remind her of your safeword when she is

୨ৎ But, damn… quite frankly, you give her a run for her money, and that isn’t easy to do

୨ৎ By the time she’s done with you, you’re littered in bite marks and bruises, legs trembling and face tear-stained

୨ৎ She finds that aftercare with you makes the come down off of shimmer so much easier to handle, too; that pressing kisses to every mark she’s made and whispering praises in your ear as she wipes away at your shuddering form helps ground her just as much

୨ৎ And then, she sleeps like a Gods-damned baby

୨ৎ She never falls asleep at the brothel; or so she thought, but here she is, being woken up by an angel in pink lingerie letting her know that it’s closing time

୨ৎ Of course, she flips out when you tell her she’s been asleep for hours, but you refuse to wake her up and kick her out, caring more that she catches up on the sleep you know she’s not getting than the money you could've made in those hours

୨ৎ But, it’s not like the money matters; she pays double for you, now

──˚₊ 𝐄𝐍𝐃 ‧₊˚──

[whoevenisjavier]

Miller Vs. You

pairing: no outbreak lawyer joel x f! lawyer reader (one shot - 9k words)

synopsis: How dramatic of you to sit in a hotel bar and drink your sorrows away before one of the most important days of your career. And how stupid it is to let a stranger pull you into a night that doesn’t stay behind.

additional tags/content warnings: 18+, mdni, lawyer joel miller, lawyer reader, divorced joel miller, age difference, joel is 55 and reader is 26, enemies to lovers (kinda?), one night stand, pwp, oral sex (f! and m! receiving), i swear harry castillo didn’t to anything wrong

You have a persona you stick to every single workday.

Shoulders back, neutral expression, never angry (because that could get you labeled as being “on your period” by someone with too much time and too little decency), and your voice always at the same pitch and volume: never too loud, never too soft, but always firm enough that you come across as credible.

Nothing shakes you. Nothing can. One trembling hand or a pair of widened eyes could cost you thirty points off your credibility score in the firm, and no one wants to be defended by someone who flinches. Without clients, there’s no money. Simple as that.

Of course, being a twenty-six-year-old woman means you have to prove yourself twice as much as anyone else. Especially in Austin, the beating heart of construction companies and men with large, calloused hands and sunburnt faces who rarely place their trust in a woman your age, dressed in a linen suit and heels.

Shit. What did you get yourself into?

A headache starts to bloom as you finally stop in front of a hotel on your way home, after a fifteen-minute walk. A doorman in full uniform is greeting guests at the end of a red carpet rolled out between the curb and the gilded doors, and every inch of it screams money. Formal wear. Ten thousand forks for ten thousand-course wine-paired dinners.

You glance down at your formal dress and running shoes.

You almost turn around. You had to switch into sneakers for the walk home after work to clear your head, and your heels are tucked inside your bag, but the mere thought of being turned away for your outfit pisses you off even more.

Still, rules are rules. That’s your job, after all.

Tonight, you admit that a drink is absolutely worth the risk and you sure as hell won’t find one at home, where the only alcohol in your fridge is a half-finished bottle of wine that’s probably turned to vinegar by now.

So you take a deep breath, walk up to the doorman, and use that soft, composed voice you save for very specific moments.

“Good evening. I’m not a guest, but I’m here for the bar.”

The doorman gives you a once-over so quick it’s like it never happened. Before he can bring up the dress code, you pull your bag open so he can see your heels. And your makeup pouches. And the empty glass containers that once held your lunch.

“I’ll put the heels on. I swear. I was just walking home from work.”

“Good evening,” he says politely, with an accent you know isn’t from Texas. “Please feel free to use one of the couches in the lobby to put your shoes on before heading to the bar.”

Message received.

Like the law-abiding citizen you are, you follow the rules and switch out your sneakers for your heels before heading down the hotel’s main corridor to the bar. The decor is dark, rich, and moody, and the red carpet is soft beneath your steps as you walk toward the bar counter. The chandeliers, cascading with colored crystals, cast warm amber shadows across the wood ceiling, carved and curved with elaborate detail.

You settle onto a barstool, velvet-cushioned and high-backed, and bury your face in your hands for a moment, breathing in the scent of cedar and the swirl of colognes with notes of wood and tobacco flower.

Today was your mentor’s farewell party at the firm. She got an offer from a major New York firm that she couldn’t turn down, and the non-negotiable requirement was that she start tomorrow. She’s probably already at the airport by now.

As soon as she gave notice, you were promoted to fill the role she left behind, but only so you could inherit all of her massive, complex cases.

Today was goodbye. And tomorrow…

Tomorrow is the first hearing in the class action brought by twenty workers, now represented by you, against one of the country’s biggest construction companies. Tomorrow, you’ll argue for class certification before the judge and the construction company’s attorney, whose name you haven’t bothered to look up. You don’t need to know who it is.

“Judging by that look, I’m gonna suggest a straight whiskey. Neat.”

You glance up at the bartender, who’s offering a sympathetic smile.

“I am in crisis, but not that deep. A Gold Rush, please.”

He nods and steps away to make your drink, and you take a moment to look around.

There are couples whispering to each other, women and men who look way too guilty to actually be couples and are probably taking advantage of the place’s privacy to negotiate their affairs. Or maybe you’re just pathologically judgmental. There are men in suits drinking bottled beer alone, and a group of girlfriends gathered around a glittery, heavily made-up woman wearing a satin sash across her chest that reads “sweet 21.” Probably a bar crawl. This place doesn’t usually attract the young and joyful.

Your Gold Rush lands in front of you and you thank him. The opening bars of “That Don’t Impress Me Much” start playing softly over the speakers, casting just enough of a mood to make you forget, for a minute, why you came here in the first place.

When you pick up your phone, the work group chat is flooded with messages, mostly pictures from earlier tonight, and suddenly not even the magical composition of Shania Twain is strong enough to act as an antidote to the bitter sensation spreading in your stomach. There’s a cake in the photos, cheap champagne and going-away gifts for your mentor. Your smile looks perfectly convincing. No one would ever guess you’re terrified.

Someone sits down two stools to your left, and you glance over out of pure curiosity.

It’s a man in a crisp white shirt, sleeves buttoned just right, tailored slacks, and shoes that shine too much for him to be some intern at an accounting firm nearby. He raises a finger to the bartender, and you catch a glimpse of his salt-and-pepper hair and beard before turning your attention back to your drink. Definitely not an intern.

You text a few of your friends, humming softly along with whatever’s playing from the strategically hidden speakers around the bar. The bartender shares a few pieces of gossip and hotel stories, and you’re entertained, especially by the one about the top-floor suite being haunted.

You ask for a second Gold Rush, but when the glass is placed in front of you, it’s just whiskey. A sad, warm, flat pour of whiskey.

The bartender walks away too fast to notice your attempt to call him back, already serving a new guest who just sat down at the far end of the bar.

“Shit,” you mutter, staring at the amber liquid staring back at you. Maybe this is a sign you’re meant to move on to neat whiskey.

“I think our drinks got switched.”

The voice comes from your left. The man in the white shirt is holding up a Gold Rush, fingers wrapped easily around the glass.

His voice is steady and deep, and his face catches you off guard. He’s handsome in a way that’s just… male. Strong jaw lined with a full beard, lips tinged slightly red from the whiskey.

“Oh,” you say, eloquently. “Yeah. Right. Here.”

You reach out and offer him your glass, and the two of you switch drinks. As you sit back on your stool, you feel his eyes stay on you.

“You looked a little disappointed not to get the whiskey.”

“I thought it was a divine sign I should start drinking it neat.”

“And why would God weigh in on your drink order?”

You rub the side of your face, smiling.

“Because he knows I need it.”

He lets out a low whistle.

“Tough shit, huh?”

You nod, then take another long sip of your Gold Rush. It’s not as good as the first one… more watered down, less honey, more whiskey. Not exactly the ideal mix.

“What about you?” you ask, loud enough for him to know the question’s for him, though you keep your eyes on your glass. “Do you drink it neat because you like it or because you have to? Doesn’t make sense to me, someone choosing to drink whiskey like that.”

“I’ve outgrown drinking to forget. I just like the taste.”

“Okay.”

A low chuckle.

“What was that ‘okay’? You don’t believe me?”

“Hard to believe anyone’s ever too old to drink to get something off their mind.”

“All right. Let’s make a deal. You,” he lifts the glass and points a finger toward you, “tell me what you’re trying to forget, and I’ll tell you mine.”

“Why?”

“Because if you had anything better to do, you wouldn’t be here drinking alone.”

“Maybe I just want to drink in peace without being bothered.”

“I’m too old to be scared off by that kind of line, too. If you really didn’t want to talk to me, you wouldn’t have kept going.”

“Well, look at that. A behavioral analyst?”

Another lopsided smile that’s, unfortunately, way too attractive.

“Close enough.”

The group of girls gets up from their table, heading for the exit while singing in unison, “I’m 21 now, everybody wanna be my guy.” A few people turn to watch, but the man beside you doesn’t take his eyes off you.

You sigh.

“I got promoted. My mentor moved out of town and left me in charge of a load of terrifyingly complex cases that used to be hers.”

“Unless your boss is dumb as a box of rocks, they wouldn’t have promoted you if you didn’t have the chops.”

“I know I’m good,” you say, because it’s true. “Thanks, but I’m not in need of a pep talk about my potential. Your turn.”

He presses his palm flat on the oak bar in front of you both.

“Got divorced eight months ago and still dealing with the headache of splitting assets.”

“Someone trying to screw the other over?”

“No.”

That’s all he says, and that’s where he leaves it. And since you know your limits (at least most of the time) you raise your glass.

“Let’s drink to that.”

The drink has gone lukewarm from sitting too long, and this bar isn’t exactly cold, but the last thing your brain registers is the faint aftertaste of light oak lingering on your tongue, because the man in front of you holds your gaze as he takes another sip of his dull whiskey.

The bartender looks a little impatient when you finally realize he said something. You turn toward him, lowering your glass.

“Sorry. What?”

“Would you two like a table? One just opened up.”

He’s referring to the table where the group of brightly dressed girls had been just minutes ago. It’s clean now, the polished mahogany shining under the bar lights, and then—

“Oh, we’re not—”

“I…” the man next to you says, already standing. His trousers are slightly wrinkled at the thighs, and for some reason, you notice. “Would like a table, because there’s only so long my back can take sitting on one of these stools.”

He walks past you, still holding his glass, and says low enough for only you to hear:

“You’re welcome to join me if you feel like it.”

He smells good: clean, expensive cologne, aftershave with a hint of patchouli, and the scent stays with you even after he’s far enough away. The bartender wipes down the spot where the boring whiskey glass had been and says:

“I can bring your next round to the table.”

You respond with a small, polite smile, and slide off the stool.

In your day-to-day, you deal with nerve-wracking situations, but apparently your nervous system can’t tell the difference between arguing a case against a major corporation and walking over to a good-looking man, because your hands get clammy and your heart beats a little faster with each step.

The table he’s sitting at is a booth in the corner of the bar, one side framed by a half-moon sofa and the other by a wide, comfortable chair. He’s in the chair, on the phone.

When you slide into the booth across from him and set your bag down, he meets your gaze, and there’s something just slightly predatory in the way a small smile curves his lips.

“I’ve gotten ten reports about tomorrow already,” he says into the phone, thumb resting against the edge of his whiskey glass. His voice doesn’t match the smile. It’s colder. “I don’t need another one or more details. I’m the one who wrote the motion to dismiss.”

The bartender brings another Gold Rush. You ask for water. Joel lowers the phone and asks the bartender for something else before returning to the call.

“I thought it’d be the other attorney. No, I don’t know the new one,” he pauses. “Don’t bother looking up her name. What the hell difference would that make?”

He ends the call with a promise to talk again after whatever he’s doing at ten in the morning. The phone disappears into his pocket, and he leans back, lifting his eyebrows at you.

“So you decided to join me.”

“A gift.”

The smile widens.

“Not gonna argue with that.”

Another sip, another glance exchanged.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you ask. He nods once. “I’m curious, and I have very little shame about it. I want to know why you got divorced.”

“You’re expecting something scandalous or sexy, but I’m gonna let you down. It’s plain vanilla. Bland as a Big Mac, really.”

You laugh.

“That’s fine. It’ll still satisfy my curiosity.”

“Quick version? Work.” Ah yes, the plot of every midlife divorce movie ever made. “Long version involves listing every way we were socially, sexually, and emotionally incompatible, and my job was just the trigger that made us stop lying to each other.”

“For twenty years?”

“Twenty-two,” he corrects. “Yeah. Luckily, I’m not the brooding type and I don’t dwell on much, or I’d be stuck agonizing over spending nearly half my life with someone I didn’t love. And who didn’t love me.”

“Can I say I’m sorry?”

“Please don’t. I’m not sorry, so no reason you should be.”

“Maybe I’m just a helpless romantic with a shattered heart over the idea of a couple splitting up.”

The bartender reappears, placing a small charcuterie board on the table with cheeses, olives, cured meats, and in one corner, a few syrupy cherries. He hands you your water and walks away.

“You don’t strike me as a helpless romantic,” Joel says, gesturing toward the food. “Help yourself.”

He takes a bite of blue cheese and sips the whiskey.

“And you don’t look like a divorced man in crisis at a hotel bar,” you reply, which makes him smile, unfazed. “What do I look like?” you ask.

He doesn’t even have to think.

“Someone who’d sneak out in the middle of the night and leave a fake number on a napkin.”

“So… a player.”

A loud laugh bursts from one of the women at the next table. He watches you in silence, the golden light outlining the shape of his shoulders, the expensive leather watch on his wrist, and you think: I want to see him naked.

“Not a bad thing,” he says. “But to be fair, that’s just a guess. I don’t usually do this.” He explains, “Casual stuff. One-night stands.”

“Are you a romantic?”

“No, but I’m a fan of intimacy. I like knowing how to touch, what to touch, what to say. Waking up, breathing in someone’s skin, wanting more.”

His deep voice vibrates across every nerve in your body like a low-voltage current that leaves only a soft numbness at your fingertips.

“Let me know if I’m crossing a line,” you say.

“I wouldn’t let you cross one,” he replies calmly, full of quiet confidence.

You ignore him. “Have you had a casual thing since the divorce?”

“Just one.”

“And was it good? Because casual relationships usually have zero intimacy.”

“I didn’t expect it to be good. And I don’t expect you to understand or think it’s moral, but when you’ve been with the same person for that long, touching someone else, even post-divorce, feels wrong.”

“And that’s exactly what made it better,” you guess, because humans are painfully predictable like that, even if morality forces them to hide the pattern.

“Bingo.”

“Planning to go for a second round?”

“You mean with casual stuff in general, or with that same person?” he asks, and you shrug. Joel turns the question over like it’s another sip of aged whiskey. He watches as you pick up a cherry and place it between your lips. Finally, he says, “Haven’t had the chance. Either one.”

It’s just the whiskey. That’s the only reason you feel the urge to say until now so intensely that you have to bite your bottom lip to stop yourself.

“And your relationships?” he asks. You don’t answer, so he rephrases: “Your casual ones?”

You reply, “I don’t know your name.”

He leans in slightly.

“Joel.”

You tell him yours and reach out to shake his hand. Joel wraps his larger, soft hand around yours, his thumb resting gently across your knuckles. The gesture was supposed to be playful, a faux handshake, but Joel leans in.

Before he lowers his head completely, though, he turns just enough to look into your eyes. Then he presses a kiss to the top of your fingers.

“A pleasure,” he murmurs. He strokes your hand one last time before laying it gently on the table and sitting upright.

“If you keep this up,” you say, pulling your hand back into your lap, sure he can somehow see how your skin’s tingling even though that’s impossible, “you’ll have a whole collection of casual flings soon enough.”

“Did it work on you?” he asks, so polite, so well-mannered, that even the flirting sounds like something out of a velvet-bound British novel, if not for that slow Texas drawl that turns every sentence ending into something obscene. “Or are you not a fan of casual relationships?”

“It’s the only kind I’ve ever known.”

“What are you, twenty-four?”

“Twenty-six.”

Joel nods slowly, doing the math as he finishes off the last of his whiskey. Then he pulls his wallet from his pocket and flips through a few cards, and you catch a glimpse of an American Express Black before he slides something toward you.

You lean forward to get a better look under the dim light.

Two items. One is a gold State Bar of Texas license card, just like the one in your own wallet, with the name Joel Miller and an issue date of August 1997. Of course. A lawyer. The other is his driver’s license, photo and all, same name, and date of birth. A few seconds of math tell you Joel is fifty-five.

“If I said I’m staying on the top floor and would love for you to come up with me, what would you say?” he asks as you’re still scanning his personal information.

Makes sense now why he showed it to you.

It’s pure luck your hand is still in your lap, because the tremble might’ve given you away. You take a slow sip of water, calm and measured, and steady your breath before answering:

“Make the request properly, and I’ll give you an answer.”

Joel checks his watch, then his empty glass, and as he asks the bartender for the check, he says:

“I’m staying here and heading up to my room. I’d like you to come with me, because I’ve thought about you in my bed an unhealthy number of times in the last few minutes.”

“That’s not a request.”

“Shame. I’m not much of a man who asks.”

The bartender brings the check inside a leather folio embossed with the hotel’s logo, handing it to Joel. Before anything else, though, you place your hand on top of Joel’s documents, still neatly aligned on the mahogany table, and ask the bartender:

“Do you know him?” You gesture toward Joel.

The bartender looks between the two of you. If he finds the situation odd, which would be entirely reasonable, he doesn’t show it.

“Yes, of course. Mr. Miller is a very frequent guest of ours,” he answers politely. You keep your eyes on the bartender, but you can feel Joel watching you, the heat of it brushing against your profile. “A point of pride for the state of Texas, protecting the companies that drive our economy.”

Patriotism in Texas is nothing new, and you’re used to it by now, but the word “pride” still makes you frown. Your train of thought is interrupted when Joel asks the bartender:

“Her Gold Rushes are on here too?” The bartender says yes. Joel murmurs, “Good,” grabs the pen and signs his name on the dotted line. You only catch the M of his last name before the folio is closed. “Thank you.” Then, to you, he says, “Let’s go.”

There’s still plenty of room for you to say no, to back out, to clarify that you were just flirting and your final stop is here, not his hotel room. Joel would accept that and call it a night. But that’s not what you want, which is why you grab your purse, his documents, and rise from your seat along with him.

The elevator ride up to Joel’s hotel room is quiet, and he watches with a half-amused expression as you photograph his ID, hand everything back, then send his information and your location to your best friend. There’s no one else with you, and no one in the hallway to see Joel unlock the room with a keycard and step aside to let you in first.

The soft click behind you signals the door closing, but your eyes are on the freshly made bed and the suitcase in the corner of the room. A MacBook sits in the middle of the white sheets, and there’s a stack of papers on the nightstand. The hotel closet holds three suits on hangers and two pairs of polished shoes.

You’re so nervous you can feel it deep in your stomach, cold and sharp like anxiety always is. It’s reckless, being here with a stranger, but you cling to the shared location and the photos of his ID like a life raft, because you want this so badly.

Let’s just hope you don’t end up on the news tomorrow as the gullible attorney who walked into a psychopath’s trap.

Without even turning around, you know Joel’s behind you.

“I need to ask you something, and I don’t want it to be weird,” you say, facing him.

“Okay.”

“I want to shower first.”

“Damn,” he says, amused. “Here I was bracing for you to say you were into bloodplay.”

“That comes after the shower. I like my fangs nice and clean.”

Joel’s smile is easy, and despite the strangeness of the situation, an unavoidable side effect of any casual encounter, his expression makes the room feel a little less tense. He guides you to the suite, tells you to take all the time you need, and leaves you alone.

From there, everything’s mechanical. Heels off. Then the dress, folded carefully over the marble counter so it won’t wrinkle. Then your underwear. You tie your hair up, turn on the hot water, and step under the strong spray. You only wore a bit of makeup this morning, just a couple dabs of concealer, so you’re free to let the water hit your face, and that feels like a relief.

The heat loosens the tension in your shoulders, and the bathroom quickly fills with steam. Your worries about tomorrow sink down into the back of your mind, into that mental drawer where you keep your mom’s chocolate cake recipe, the names of Game of Thrones characters, and Kant’s theory on ethics and morality. Things that matter, just not right now.

There’s a bottle of body wash that seems way too fancy to be hotel-issued, but you pump some into your palm and work it across your skin. Patchouli.

The door opens again. Joel’s voice comes through the steam:

“Mind if I grab my toothbrush?”

The shower glass is fully fogged over. Still, it matters that he asks, even after you followed him up here fully intending to sleep with him.

“Go ahead and brush your teeth.”

The door opens all the way and closes again. Over the rush of water, you hear him moving at the sink, running the faucet, brushing.

“I’m not usually this weird,” you say, feeling the need to explain. “I swear if this were any other day, I would’ve kissed you the moment we walked into the room. But I came straight from work and didn’t want to torture you with the scent of a ten-hour shift.”

“I didn’t notice anything wrong with the way you smelled, but I get it. After twenty-five, we’ve all got our little rituals,” he says, mouth slightly full of foam, probably. Rinse. Spit. “But for the record? I would’ve dropped to my knees between your legs downstairs if you let me.”

You open the shower door. Joel’s drying his mouth with a small white towel, shirt already off. His chest and arms are solid, broad shoulders, strong build, but there’s a softness to his stomach that makes you want to press yours right up against it.

“Why don’t you come in here?” you say.

Apparently, that’s exactly what he was waiting for.

He unbuckles his belt. As he’s unbuttoning his pants, you slip back into the shower. Seconds later, Joel steps inside behind you, shutting the glass door, and your wet body meets his at the exact moment your mouths collide.

His hands are strong as they grab your hips, and he’s got enough height on you to make you feel entirely surrounded, completely taken. His kiss is firm, just like you imagined it would be, and his body is hot against yours, his torso pressed tight as chills ripple across your skin every time his mouth covers yours. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer, your breasts pressed against his chest, and take the initiative to part your lips and run your tongue across the seam of his.

Joel inhales sharply, fists your hair at the nape of your neck, and deepens the kiss, his tongue meeting yours. It’s so good and so commanding that your brain wants to shut down completely, which is probably why it’s sending frantic signals to your limbs to just submit, let him take over. But there’s so much you want to touch.

Your wet hands roam over his back, his shoulders. You breathe him in, savoring the way his grip on your ass tightens as he pulls you against him. His cock is hard and hot against the lowest part of your belly.

Your lips part with a wet pop, and his mouth drifts downward to your jaw just as he grabs your hand and wraps it around his thick cock. He covers your fingers with his own and moves them up and down once. Just once. Enough to make it obvious what he wants from you.

You take the opportunity to glance down, watching as your fingers wrap around him, the swollen head disappearing and reappearing with every stroke. He’s firm and soft, and the trimmed hair on his groin is the end of the trail that starts at his navel. You want to lick him from top to bottom.

Your rhythm falters slightly when Joel’s mouth finds your neck, your collarbones, while his hands explore your breasts, waist, hips.

“Fuck, you’re even hotter than I imagined,” he says, lifting your chin with a tug of your hair so he can kiss you again.

“Did you listen to a single thing I said tonight or were you just busy fantasizing about me?”

Joel groans when you press your palm against the head of his cock, a deep, low sound.

“I can do both. Especially when both are this damn interesting.”

The gray in his hair darkens under the steam. He kisses so well it’s borderline unfair, and it’s only because he kisses you again that you almost don’t notice when his hand slides down your back, over your ass, between your legs, and grabs your pussy from behind. His satisfied hum at how wet you are is drowned out by your gasp.

Without hesitation, he sinks his middle finger inside you. Your hand freezes around his cock, but Joel clicks his tongue.

“Keep stroking me,” he murmurs. “Don’t stop.”

Good for Joel if he can multitask. Despite all that talk about women being naturally better at it, tonight you’re failing. He’s fingering you from behind, one foot between yours keeping your legs spread, and you can’t jerk him off in any rhythm that would make sense. Your brain’s gone to mush.

“Shit,” Joel says, sounding almost… frustrated. “You’re so fucking tight around my fingers. I need to…”

You melt in his arms as he pulls his fingers from you, puts you against the glass wall of the shower and kneels in front of you, lifting one of your thighs over his shoulder before leaning in to lick you. You writhe against him, your heel pressing into the hard muscle of his back, but his fingers on your thighs feel like steel clamps.

He doesn’t waste time. Licks you from bottom to top, probably more for himself than for you, but after that, he’s relentless, sucking directly on your clit, already swollen and sensitive. Your hair slips from its bun. Joel’s dark eyes devour your chest, your face, while his tongue works magic between your legs, making you moan without shame.

Your hips move on instinct against his mouth, riding his face, and Joel encourages it.

“Joel—”

“You just ruined my whole damn month,” he says, switching his mouth for his thumb. He circles your clit slowly, massaging, pressing. Your leg trembles. “I’m gonna remember the sound of you moaning my name for days. At work. In meetings. At home…”

You smile up at the ceiling, still half delirious, when Joel bites the soft spot where your thigh meets your hip.

“Eyes on me, baby,” he orders.

You obey.

When he puts his mouth on you again, it’s clear he has one goal: to make you come. And there’s your answer. Maybe one — maybe zero — of the men you’ve slept with before knew the right pressure to suck your clit, not too hard, not lazy, and even fewer had the patience to push you to the edge, to keep their eyes on you, to make it unforgettable.

The orgasm hits like a wave, consuming you from the inside out. Joel has to hold you against the glass to keep you from collapsing or slipping. You whimper, dissolving like sugar in water, pulsing against his tongue. And when he stands up again, your eyes are instantly drawn to his still rock-hard cock, now flushed almost red.

Joel presses a chaste kiss to your temple and whispers,

“Turn around.”

“I’m not having sex without a condom,” you say, but still turn, planting your hands against the shower wall.

“Neither am I.”

That doesn’t stop him from sliding his cock between your folds, holding your hips steady. You press your legs together.

“This okay?” he checks. You nod. He hums, “Good.”

Joel wraps an arm around your waist, his solid forearm crossing over your stomach, and rolls his hips while his free hand caresses every inch of you. The thick head of his cock slides up and down between your folds, brushing your clit with every slow thrust, drawing out a whimper from your throat. He leaves kisses down your spine, over your shoulder blade, and they melt into warm sighs as you reach between your legs and press his cock harder against yourself. It glides easily, soaked by how wet you are, and you bite your lip to keep from begging him to just fuck you already.

Then, without warning, he pulls back, withdrawing from between your legs. He turns your face to kiss you again, his breath ragged against your lips. You try to stroke him, needing to feel how hard he still is, but Joel catches your wrist, brushing his thumb softly across it.

“No,” he says gently. “Give me a second, alright? I’m close.”

You kiss his cheek, then whisper,

“I can get you hard again.”

The low, raspy laugh he lets out is the sexiest sound you’ve heard all night, especially at that volume, intimate and low, meant only for you.

“I’m not twenty-five anymore. My refractory period’s a lot longer now.”

There’s something about the way he says it, with total confidence despite the admission, like he couldn’t care less about the time it takes because he knows damn well how good he is, that makes you grab him again. Joel pulls you close, kisses you with that same depth, and reaches over to shut the water off before guiding you gently out of the shower.

Your body’s soaked, still dripping, and Joel’s not much drier as you both step out of the bathroom and walk across the room to the bed. Wet footprints trail behind you, and you almost feel bad for the pristine white sheets as Joel eases you down into the center of the mattress. Then he covers you with his body, and for a few minutes, his body is all you feel.

The positions shift, and now you’re on top of him. Joel keeps his eyes on you as you move along his body, one of his hands massaging the back of your neck in a firm and steady way, but the second your mouth closes around him, his eyes shut. His fingers tighten against your throat.

You’re not usually great at maintaining eye contact during a blowjob because it always makes you feel like you look ridiculous with your mouth full, but when you look up, it’s not about being sexy. You just need to see the way his jaw clenches, how the veins on his neck stand out. A slow pass of your tongue over the swollen head and that tender spot just beneath it makes him unravel even more.

Maybe it’s nothing to be proud of, but sucking him feels good. Your mind goes completely quiet, focused only on his sounds, the moans, the sighs, the dirty words he murmurs each time you suck the head, massage that sensitive spot, or slide your lips down his full length with your teeth carefully covered.

You feel his thighs begin to tense right before he massages your jaw and gently nudges you back up. He exhales deeply, letting his head fall against the pillow again, speaking more to the ceiling than to you.

“Okay. Now I really wish I was twenty-five again.”

You’re so wet between your legs that you can feel it slick between your folds as you crawl back up over Joel’s body and straddle his hips with a smile, wiping your lips with your fingertips. It’s almost instinctive, the way your hands flatten on his stomach, gliding over his torso, his pecs, his freckled shoulders.

“Too close?”

Joel nods, finally looking at you again. Just as naturally, his hands roam over your thighs, admiring you.

“Too close,” he agrees. “And I’m cursing myself because it felt so damn good. You’re so damn good.”

Call it what you want, but being praised for something you’re good at is always an ego boost, whether it’s about defending constitutional violations in a cert petition or the way you suck a man off.

“What’s your practice area?” you ask, since the idea is to give him a moment to cool down. “I saw your bar card.”

“Corporate labor and commercial litigation.”

Ah. So that’s why the bartender said he was some sort of national hero to corporations. Great. You’ve ended up in bed with a champion of the bourgeoisie.

“In-house?”

His eyes stay fixed on the small birthmark near your hip, tracing it with his thumb as he answers:

“No. I’ve got my own firm.”

“I work at one.”

That makes him lift his eyes, his hands pausing.

“You’re an attorney?” he asks. You nod. “What area?”

“Labor.”

“Please tell me it’s not mine.”

“You wouldn’t know an associate at your own firm?” you ask, a little surprised.

“I don’t keep up with everyone. Not anymore.” Joel wraps one arm around your hips just before sitting up in bed, you still in his lap. Gently, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and leans in. A kiss to your neck, then one to your throat, his hands sliding up your back. “I don’t only work in Texas, even though I started here. We’ve got offices in California and New York, and I live there now.”

The next kiss on your neck has a bit more bite, which makes you shift on his lap, your fingers threading through his damp hair.

Your voice trembles a little when you say,

“I’ll never represent companies. And no teeth. I’ve got a hearing tomorrow.”

He murmurs a soft “sorry” against your skin and, with both hands on your back, lowers you gently so he can start licking your breasts. When his mouth closes around one of them, the only thing your brain can think is:

“The teeth. There… Okay. That’s allowed.”

Joel laughs quietly, but he takes the hint. The next time he sucks on your nipple, his tongue circles the tip and his teeth graze just the right amount, sending a sharp pulse through your body. He gives equal attention to both before rising to kiss you again, his hand finding its way between your legs, fingers pressing against your folds with a rhythm and pressure so delicious it almost feels criminal. The wet sound that follows makes you blush, but Joel’s response is a curse along with him slipping two fingers inside.

You choke on a breath, shift your hips, try to accommodate him. Asks:

“If I worked for you, would you stop this? Fire me?”

“Nothing in the world could make me stop this.” A pause. “I’m adding another finger,” more a warning than a request, but you’re so wet and relaxed that all you feel is a slight burn and the undeniable fullness as he slides a third one in.

“Condom,” you say. Demand.

Joel’s still got his face tucked into the curve of your neck, his fingers working inside you, when he reaches blindly toward the nightstand. He must’ve placed one there while you were in the shower. God, you love a man who plans ahead.

Except—

“Shit,” he mutters. “It’s in my kit. In the bathroom.”

“I’m this close to telling you to fuck me without it.”

A nearly painful groan.

“Don’t say that. I’m already picturing it…” His thumb circles your clit. Rubs. “Picturing what it’d feel like to come inside you.”

“I think we should be responsible.”

That’s your rational brain speaking, and it’s the only reason you get off his lap and step out of bed to head toward the bathroom. There’s nothing on the counter but your clothes, and you’re not even sure how to open these fancy, handle-less cabinets.

“Joel,” you call out.

Sheets rustle. Footsteps. Then a hand on your waist, gently guiding you to the right. Joel taps one corner of a door with his thumb, and it opens with ease to reveal a toiletry kit. He pulls out a condom, holding it between two fingers.

“Hard to find?”

You turn to him.

“Never seen handle-less doors before. Must be a fancy-room thing for bougie corporate lawyers.”

Joel watches you as he tears the packet open, and you feel a little self-conscious under the bathroom’s harsh lighting, aware that a few strands of hair are probably out of place and your dark circles look even more visible after all the stress about tomorrow’s, but his cock is still hard as ever while he rolls the condom down his length.

“A class enemy?” he asks softly once he’s done, stepping closer until the marble counter presses against the small of your back. Joel lowers his head, cradles your jaw, and kisses the corner of your mouth. “Am I corrupting you?”

“No one needs to know.”

All it takes is his hands on your hips and one solid pull to seat you on the counter, Joel stepping between your legs.

“Shame. But I’m gonna make you forget all about the hate,” he promises, spreading your thighs and dragging you to the edge of the counter. You grip his shoulders, and before anything else, he takes your jaw again and makes you look down and watch as he guides himself toward you. “Come on, love. Watch while you let your enemy slide inside that pussy.”

You plant one foot on the counter to open yourself up wider, tilt your hips to get a better look as his thick cock drags from top to bottom between your folds before finally breaching your entrance.

“Joel—”

He slides all the way in, and you squeeze your eyes shut, fingers digging into his shoulders. Joel covers your mouth with his, wraps your thighs around his hips, and with one hand braced on the mirror behind you, finally, finally!, starts to fuck you.

Joel keeps in mind what you said about no visible marks, but it seems he took a generous interpretation of that rule because he doesn’t leave any where people might see. The relentless motion of his hips and the deep thrusts inside you come paired with kisses to your neck, slow bites to your breasts (which will definitely leave reminders for the rest of the year), and praises whispered against your ear. So fucking good, never had anyone like you, wanna spend all night buried inside you…

God. A goddamn talker. Like you weren’t already absolutely wrecked.

At some point, you end up standing, bent over the sink, and the marks Joel leaves are now on your back. He grabs your hair, makes you watch through the mirror, grips your ass with both hands, and you’re not proud of how many times you beg.

He listens, delivers. When he needs a break himself, he slips out of you, urges you to arch even deeper, and puts his mouth on you from behind, licking your pussy like a man starving for it. You come in seconds, shaking, still trembling when he guides you back to bed. Then he slides back inside you.

At some point, with your throat dry, you whisper in his ear,

“Look at you. You’re fucking me like I’m an employee at one of your clients’ companies.”

Joel laughs out loud, and it’s one of the most delicious sounds you’ve ever heard. He laughs with his mouth against yours, holding you close, his body shaking with it, and you can’t help but laugh along with him.

“You pretty thing, shut up,” he says, but it’s so gentle, so intimate.

“Wanna know how you can shut me up?” you ask, pressing your lips to his sweaty neck, licking the salt from his skin. Joel says your name like a warning as he fucks you slowly, his thrusts deep and deliberate. “Come in my mouth.”

The groan that escapes him is raw, guttural, completely involuntary. One hand goes to the back of your neck, the other grips your hips, and he starts to lose control, faster, rougher, frantic, until he pulls out, takes off the condom, and climbs up your body until his knees are on the mattress beside your shoulder and his cock is back in your mouth.

Joel looks down as your lips close around his swollen head, chest rising and falling, and it only takes a few strokes of your tongue and a warning before he’s coming in your mouth, long and hard, moaning your name. You swallow everything and feel your belly tighten when he calls you a good girl, privately and softly, before leaning down to kiss you.

When he finally collapses beside you, both of you are exhausted, slick with sweat, and the ceiling seems a little brighter somehow.

You turn your head to look at him, and he turns his toward you.

“Intimate enough for you?” you ask.

“Not sure. I think I need to fuck you two more times to be certain.”

Smiling this much at a casual hookup is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.

“And I need food.”

“Want me to order room service?”

That… wasn’t your intention. You meant you need to go, grab something to eat, make a clean exit for the both of you.

You sit up in bed. The clock on the table in front of you says it’s nine-thirty.

“Is the food here any good?” you ask, and apparently, somewhere in that question, there’s an answer to his invitation.

Joel orders room service, pays for everything, and you head back to the shower. And Joel follows… again. Somewhere in that overly capable, slightly aging brain of his, he decides you need to come again using his fingers. Then by holding the shower head directly to your clit, the water pressure making you twist and writhe against him. By the time the food arrives, you’re already half-asleep.

You’re in a robe, your hair is clean, the bed is soft, and Joel is… comfortable.

The perfect setup for sleep.

You wake up to the sound of a siren.

The hotel windows are thick and sealed shut, but the siren outside, somewhere in the city, is high-pitched and unrelenting, dragging you out of a deep, warm sleep. If not for the bedside lamp set to its lowest brightness, the room would be completely dark, and you wouldn’t be able to see Joel’s relaxed face as he sleeps, or the way his arm is still wrapped around your waist.

It’s hard, but you manage to slip out of the heat of his body, gently move his arm, and step out of bed on your toes. It’s just past two in the morning, and suddenly the weight of tomorrow hits you like an anvil dropped on a cartoon character.

Your clothes are perfectly folded on one of the chairs in the sitting area, and you dress quietly. You gather your bag, your heels (which you’ll only put on once you’re outside), and head for the door.

But something makes you pause and glance back at the bed.

Joel is sleeping on his stomach, face pressed into the pillow, one arm still stretched across where you had been. The lamp casts a golden glow on his back, highlighting the strength and breadth of it, and it’s almost ridiculous how good-looking he is.

The internal conflict eats away at you like time rotting the beams of an old building. You know this isn’t going anywhere, because Joel lives in New York and is so disconnected from Austin that he stays in hotels when he visits. And more than that, he’s the opposing counsel in theory and in practice, no matter how funny that sounds. You know it’s not just a joke. Joel is part of a defense you’ve grown to resent, built by years of listening to thousands of workers’ stories.

And you want him.

Fuck. Stupid. Stupid. The word rings in your head as you grab one of the extra napkins from the room service tray and a gold pen you find, with “Miller” engraved on the side in elegant block letters. You write your number. And beneath it:

“This isn’t the wrong number.”

Maybe you’re not that much of a player after all.

You’ve always hated how sterile, bright, and quiet the federal courthouse hallways are. The building is new, that much is obvious, with the clean lines, polished stone floors, blinding LED panel lights, and what it lacks in Corinthian columns and grand wooden staircases, it makes up for in blankness.

You’re sitting on the fifth-floor hallway bench, just to the side of one of the brushed-steel elevators. To your left are two named plaintiffs representing the twenty workers in the class action, and in your lap are the affidavits of the other eighteen.

You force yourself not to bounce your foot, the one inside your sharpest pair of scarpins, or shuffle through the papers to confirm everything is in place. You know it is. You triple-checked before leaving the house.

“Where’s the hellhound at?” one of the workers asks. You look at him, puzzled, until he clarifies, “Their lawyer.”

“Not here yet. Maybe they’re waiting to make a grand entrance.”

What leaves the plaintiff’s mouth sounds a lot like “motherfuckers.”

In moments like this, one thought always helps calm you: tonight, I’ll be home doing whatever I want, with none of this tension on me. So you picture yourself walking through the door, kicking off your heels, tossing your briefcase aside. You imagine turning on Netflix, pressing play on some stupid British dating show, and working up the courage to respond to Joel’s text, sent at six a.m. this morning:

“Prove you didn’t give me the wrong number. Meet me tomorrow at eight. Same place.”

Tonight. That’s your goal.

Five minutes before the hearing time, you’re led to the anteroom outside the courtroom. Other attorneys are waiting too, talking over one another about past or upcoming hearings. The noise only adds to the tension.

At 10:01, the courtroom deputy calls out:

“Grant et. al versus Castillo Construction & Co., please proceed into the courtroom.”

You rise, gather your documents, your bag, your case file. With shoulders straight and chin lifted, you walk down the hallway to Courtroom 3. The two named plaintiffs follow you, but you let them enter first before stepping in behind them. You hear footsteps behind you.

Ahead, the courtroom opens into a wide space with light wood-paneled walls, narrow windows, and rows of empty cushioned benches. At the front are two wooden tables set parallel before the bench, where the judge, seated, reviews documents.

The plaintiffs take their seats, and you sit beside them, focused on arranging your files on the table beside your tablet. The defense table is soon occupied, but you don’t bother to look over.

After a few minutes, the judge lifts her eyes from the papers and says, in a clear, even voice,

“Good morning, counsel. Appearances, please.”

You stand, steady your voice, say your full name, and with pride, state that you represent the plaintiffs, feeling some kind of heat settle on you from the other side of the room.

You sit down. Out of the corner of your eye, you see someone at the defense table rise.

For a moment, everything slows. That same voice that whispered your name over and over last night echoes again with a “Good morning.” And for a split second, you wonder if you’re hallucinating or stuck in a really vivid, really awful nightmare.

But you’re not. Because what comes next is the final blow, the one that confirms everything:

“Joel Miller, counsel for the defendant.”

[lilhughesy]

°•*⁀➷ YOU & LUKE — umich hockey au blurb

just wanted to say goodnight!

-> associated with this umich hockey gc leaked!

featuring: mark estapa, luca fantilli, mackie samoskevich, and ethan edwards

"Come on, Lukey," You pouted, snuggling closer into his chest while the two of you relaxed into your bed, "It would be funny, and the boys would love it."

He rolled his eyes playfully, "I rarely call them, they're gonna think it's an emergency or something."

"That's why when you tell them 'goodnight', they'll just be so much happier," You giggled, already knowing that Luke would do it just because it's you that's asking him. He's always had a soft spot for you, but ever since the two of you have gotten closer, that boy has become even softer for you.

Luke sighed as he gently adjusted his position so he sat a bit higher up on your pillows while reaching for his phone on your side table, "Only doing this because you asked me to," He told you as his thumb swiped on his phone screen to unlock it.

"You're the best," You added as you kissed his jawline, "Nice lock screen by the way."

Luke's eyes flickered down to you as a small smirk grew on his face. The tips of his ears turned a light shade of pink to match his slight embarrassment of being caught by you, "It's a good photo of you. Always reminds me that there's more to life than hockey or what the media says about me."

Your own cheeks heated up in response to his sweet words that wrapped around you like a hug, "You're adorable, you know that right?"

You and Luke waited as the line rang a few times on speaker before Mark picked up, "What's up, Lukey?"

"Hey Marky, just wanted to call you to say goodnight," Luke said with a smile on his face.

"Aww, thanks baby," Mark chuckled, "Goodnight to you too, cutie. I hope you have a good sleep."

"I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Mhm, can't wait to see you tomorrow."

"Alright, bye Mark."

Luke laughed lightly as he hung up on the call before looking down at you as you gave him a small thumbs up, "Good job, baby"

"Oh shush," He grinned, "I'm gonna call Luca next."

"Hello?"

"Hey Fants," Luke said, trying to stifle the laugh forming in his throat, "Just wanted to call you and tell you goodnight since I'm going to sleep now."

"It's 9:10PM, why are you going to bed so early? Wait..." You heard Luca pause on the other end, "Did you and Y/N have a marathon or something?! You never go to sleep this early!"

Luke's eyes widened and his mouth opened agape, "Oh fuck off, Fants. I just wanted to say goodnight."

"You didn't answer my question!"

"Goodnight, Luca," Luke repeated while Luca continued to complain about not having his question answered before Luke hung up on him.

You finally let out the laugh that you were holding the entire duration of the call, "I swear he never minds his own business."

Luke nodded, "It's Fants, he loves hearing the gossip."

"Call Mackie, I'm sure he would love to hear your voice," You said to Luke as he scrolled through his contact list. He hummed in agreement as he pressed for the call to be on speaker,

"Hey man," Mackie greeted after the first ring, "You need something?"

"No no, I'm good," Luke told him with a low shake of his head, "I just felt like calling you and wishing you a goodnight."

Mackie laughed, "Aww, Lukey! I appreciate that man, love you."

"Love you too, bro," Luke chuckled as the two of you could still hear Mackie laughing, "See you in the morning, yeah?"

"Yeah man, sleep tight and sweet dreams."

Luke placed his phone on the empty space next to you with his arms wrapping around your middle to pull you closer, "Happy?"

You giggled as he peppered small kisses all over your temples, "Can you call Ethan too? You can't not say goodnight to him."

He rolled his eyes playfully, "I called three of the boys already, can't I just cuddle with the pretty girl next to me right now?"

"Please, Luke?" You asked while batting your eyelashes at him, "Just one more call?"

"The things I would do and do for you, sweet girl," He mumbled to himself before reaching over to pick up his phone again, "Alright, hey Siri, call Ethan Edwards."

His contact lit up the screen as it rang, "Hi baby,"

"Hey, Eds," Luke said while drawing small circles into your arm, "How's it going, man?"

"Not much," Ethan yawned as a few rustles came from his end, "You good, bro?"

"Yeah dude, just wanted to call you and say goodnight."

Ethan let out a low chuckle, "I was gonna call you and say goodnight too, I heard that you called Mark and Mackie."

"Yeah I did," Luke laughed, "You in bed?"

"Mhm, just settling in," Ethan told him.

"Alright, goodnight Eddie."

"Goodnight, Hughesy.... and goodnight Y/N!" Ethan laughed, "I know that she's the one making you do this and I know that you're definitely in her bed right now."

Luke's face turned red at the knowing tone of his best friend's voice, meanwhile, you were already laughing, "Goodnight Eddie!" you sang out while lifting your head slightly off Luke’s chest.

[understeeringirl]

We'll fake it your way

summary: a photo, a headline, and a quiet unraveling. three days after canada, the internet gets too loud, so you and lando set the rules. warnings: fake dating trope, social media mentions, hurt/comfort, soft emotional flashbacks, banter, protective!lando pairing: lando norris x fem!reader word count: 1.8k series: wrong side of the camera - intro - chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four

______________________________________________________________

It starts three days after Canada.

Lando texts you twice. Calls once. Leaves a voice note that you never open. You’re not ignoring him on purpose. You’re just tired. Not the kind that sleep fixes, either. The kind that sits in your bones, that makes your phone feel heavy in your hand. You tell yourself you’ll answer tomorrow. Then tomorrow becomes the day after. Then the day after that.

And then you’re trending. Not because of something you did. Because someone posted a blurry photo of you leaving a casting call in Monaco, and the internet decided it was open season.

"She's not even pretty." "Is this the girl who's always clinging to Lando?" "Why is she even famous?"

It spirals fast. You scroll too long. You know better. But it’s like picking at a scab—you can’t stop even when it hurts. Someone finds a race weekend clip of you standing next to Lando in the McLaren hospitality and overlays it with a Taylor Swift song about begging to be chosen. It gets over 200k likes. You close your phone. Your stomach sinks.

That night, you call him.

He answers on the second ring. “Took you long enough,” he jokes, voice warm. “Missed me?”

You smile faintly. “Hey.”

A beat of silence. Then: “You okay?”

You shift, staring out your window. “We should do it. The fake dating thing. For real.”

There’s a pause. You expect hesitation. You get none.

“Alright,” he says easily. “Let’s do it.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he repeats. “Wanna come over?”

______________________________________________________________

His apartment in Monaco is clean in a way that screams he hasn’t been home in weeks. There’s a suitcase half-unpacked by the door. Trophies on shelves you’re not sure he dusts. A hoodie of yours in the living room chair you forgot you left.

You sit cross-legged on the couch. He brings you a cup of tea like it’s muscle memory. “So,” you say, sitting across from him. “We need to set rules.”

Lando leans back, eyeing you. “Yeah?”

“You’re way too chill about this,” you say. “Which is why I need rules. Because I know you.”

He grins. “That’s fair.”

You sip your tea. “If we’re going to pull this off without losing our minds, or our friendship, we need boundaries.”

“Lay them on me.”

You sit up straighter. “Okay. What are we even trying to do with this?”

He shrugs. “Make the internet shut up. Protect you. Maybe help me get through a few interviews without dodging relationship questions.”

“So it’s part public perception, part mutual survival.”

“Exactly,” he says. “And you get full creative control over what we post. I’m not touching captions.”

“You mean no more cryptic one-liners?”

He smirks. “I’m evolving.”

He pulls out his phone and opens the Notes app. "Okay," he says, thumbs poised. "Terms and conditions. Let’s make it official."

You raise an eyebrow. "You’re writing it down?"

"We need receipts in case you sue me for emotional damage," he deadpans.

You laugh. It’s the first time tonight it doesn’t feel forced.

He starts typing.

Fake Dating Agreement:

Rule #1: No kissing unless it’s for PR. Rule #2: Weekly Instagram activity required. Stories count. Rule #3: No getting jealous. Of anything. Ever. Rule #4: Either one of us can end it. No questions asked.

He grins. “Also, I reserve the right to flirt in public. For realism.”

You roll your eyes. “Only if I can call you embarrassing nicknames in interviews.”

“Deal,” he says. “I’ve always wanted to be someone’s pumpkin.”

You groan. He’s insufferable. You try not to look at his mouth when he does.

“Anything else?” he asks. You hesitate. Then say, “Let’s just not make it harder than it needs to be.”

His face shifts, just for a second. Something flickers behind his eyes. But he nods.

“Deal.”

He reaches out his hand like this is a contract and you’re business partners. You shake on it.

______________________________________________________________

Later, after you leave, you sit on the steps outside your flat and remember a race from years ago. You were thirteen. He had just won some junior karting final, still bouncing on his heels from the adrenaline.

A local reporter asked if you were his girlfriend. You’d laughed too hard. Said “God, no.” Loud enough for him to hear.

He’d looked over, confused but not offended. “You wish,” he teased. You rolled your eyes and tossed a water bottle at him.

But it stuck with you. Not the reporter. Not the question. Just the way you couldn’t stop wondering what he would’ve said if you hadn’t spoken first.

______________________________________________________________

Lando posts something the next day.

It’s a carousel on Instagram: his post-race weekend photo dump. Slide one is him in the garage. Slide two is his engineer mid-yell. Slide three is you, barely in frame, headset on, laughing at something he said.

Caption: she makes the headphones look better

Your heart catches. Because you weren’t expecting it. Because you didn’t know he was looking.

You repost it to your story with no caption. The internet notices.

And just like that, you’re not the girl in the background anymore. You’re the girl on his feed.

Two hours later, you get an email from McLaren’s media team. It's short and vague—more curious than directive.

Subject: Content Coordination & Public Messaging From: McLaren Media To: Lando Norris, Y/N

Hello team,

Noticing the spike in engagement following yesterday’s post — exciting stuff! Let us know if you need support managing DMs or fan messaging. We’re prepping light briefing notes in case media picks up on this before Austria.

No pressure, just flagging we may want to prep some soft-launch language for Lando’s press day.

Best, Holly // McLaren Communications

You stare at the screen for a long moment.

“They think it’s real,” you say aloud.

You forward it to Lando with no message.

He replies two minutes later:

"Ignore it unless you want to do something. They don’t need to know anything. This is for us."

You wish you believed him. But when you open Instagram again, your face is everywhere. And you’re not sure who the hell you are in any of the photos.

______________________________________________________________

Like some nights, you can’t sleep.

You spend too long rereading the comments under his post. You shouldn’t, but it’s hard not to. Most of them are supportive. Some are suspicious. A few sting.

It’s past 1 a.m. when you text him.

you up?

He replies instantly:

always. what’s up?

can’t sleep. it’s too quiet.

wanna call?

You hesitate. Then:

yeah.

He calls right away. You don’t even say hi—just listen to his breathing for a second.

“You okay?” he asks.

You roll onto your back, eyes on the ceiling. “Not really.”

There’s a pause. “Wanna talk about it?”

“I dunno. It’s just… weird.”

“Weird how?”

You exhale. “All of it. Us. This. The fake dating thing. People looking at us like we’re—” You stop.

“Like we’re not just us?” he finishes.

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Yeah.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then, gently: “We’ve always been us. Doesn’t matter what anyone else sees.”

You let that sit between you. Because it’s true. Because that’s what this whole thing is supposed to be about—protecting that. Holding onto the only thing that’s ever really made sense.

“I’m glad it’s you,” you say softly.

You hear the smile in his voice when he replies. “Me too.”

There's a pause, then he says, “So what kept you up? Modeling drama? Existential dread? TikTok holes?”

You snort. “A bit of everything. Also I accidentally found a conspiracy thread about us being childhood enemies turned lovers.”

He laughs, a real one this time. “Wait—enemies? That’s slander. I shared my juice boxes with you.”

“You stole my fries for two years straight.”

“Out of love,” he says smugly.

You smile despite yourself. “How was media day?”

“Long. Boring. Someone asked me if I was in love. I think I said something about tire degradation.”

“Poetic,” you reply.

He hums. “You?”

“Shot a campaign. The stylist gave me a beret and said I looked like a depressed French poet.”

“Hot.”

“Shut up.”

He yawns, soft and sleepy. “I like this.”

“What?”

“This. You calling. Talking like we used to. Makes the rest of it feel less weird.”

You nod. “Yeah. Same.”

There's a pause, then he says: “You wanna do the first official post tomorrow?”

You chew your lip. “Yeah. Might as well. Let’s go big or go home.”

He hums again. “We fake it so well, people are gonna think we’ve been in love since we were ten.”

You don’t respond right away. Then you say, “Wouldn’t be the worst story.”

And he doesn’t answer, but you both fall into a silence that feels… comfortable. Familiar. Like slipping into a well-worn hoodie.

He clears his throat first. “So, if we’re doing this whole thing properly—what’s our story?”

“Our story?”

“Yeah. You know. How we 'fell in love.'”

You groan. “God, we’re gonna have to come up with an origin story.”

“Dramatic meet-cute? Shared trauma? Accidental hand brush that changed everything?”

You laugh. “It started when you made me eat a worm because you said it was a friendship ritual.”

“Character building,” he says. “Look at you now. Resilient. Gorgeous. Immunized.”

You roll your eyes. “I think we should just keep it vague. Let them guess.”

“Bold. Mysterious.” He pauses. “And then I get to say, ‘I’d rather keep that between us’ in interviews and look all coy.”

“That’s the dream,” you say dryly. “Just don’t oversell it.”

“No promises.”

A beat.

Then you say, “Hey, thanks for not making this weird.”

He chuckles. “You’re welcome for being incredibly cool and chill and fake-dateable.”

“Pumpkin.”

He groans. “I regret everything.”

______________________________________________________________

A few days later, your first public moment happens without planning.

It’s a sunny Thursday in Monaco, and you’re both on a coffee run. Paparazzi don’t usually wait outside the café on the corner, but someone spots him. Then someone spots you. Then someone yells his name.

He grabs your hand like it’s second nature. You blink down at it, then up at him. He just grins. Keeps walking.

You think it’ll be a passing thing—maybe a blurry photo, a headline buried under the next scandal. But by the time you’re home, it’s already on TikTok.

“Lando Norris soft-launching his girlfriend??” “He’s holding her hand like it’s his job.” “No one act surprised when they drop matching tattoos.”

You drop your forehead against the counter. Regret sighs out of you.

Lando, meanwhile, looks extremely pleased with himself. “Told you I’m good at this.”

“You’re going to ruin your own PR reputation.”

“Please,” he says, tossing you a bottle of water. “They love a little mystery. And now you’re not just a model. You’re my model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

He taps a finger against his temple. “Strategic. There's a difference.”

You hate that he’s kind of right.

That night, you fall asleep with your phone buzzing under your pillow and his contact pinned at the top of your messages.

You dream about the karting track. About when it was just you and him, and the noise of the world hadn’t found its way in yet.

______________________________________________________________

hey!! here's part one of my first series, hope you like it! if i'm being honest it feels a little messy, so please tell me if it's bad 😭😭 i'll probably upload part two today or tomorrow, hehe

see you next lap ;), -N 🏁

[lostbookmark]

MDNI 🔞

Main Masterlist here

Game Masterlist here

Summary: After the death of your brother and his wife. You find yourself adjusting to a new role in your life. A single parent to your teenage nephew. How do you help him heal? How do you help yourself heal? You're not sure. You don't think you can, until an annoying basketball coach enters your life and turns everything around.

Pairing: Basketball Coach Yoongi x Single Aunt F. Reader

Genre: Romance, Angst, Smut, Strangers to Lovers,

Warnings: Death Of Parents / Brother/ Family, Car Accident (Cause), Swearing, Explicit Sex, Arguments, Physical Fighting, Past Abusive Relationship, Talks Of Domestic Violence, Unprotected Sex, mention of grandparent passing

SMUT!!

Bangtan Ravens

Undefeated

8-0

“Okay,” Yoongi says, rounding everyone up on the bleachers after practice. “Just a few reminders before everyone leaves tonight. Monday is a holiday, and since it's a long weekend for the kids with no school tomorrow and Monday, we will have no practice those days, nor will there be a game this weekend. Does anyone have any questions?”

“No questions, but I want to invite everyone to my house this weekend for one last cookout,” pizza dough mom says, and then she leans over tapping you on the shoulder. “And I mean EVERYONE's invited.”

You give a tight-lipped smile and nod your head, acknowledging her invite. However, there was no way in hell you were going. You guess you could be grateful for the … intentional invite, but that was it.

“Thank you for that,” Yoongi says, trying to turn the attention away from you.

“Well, it wouldn't hurt for you to show up either,” she continues, giving him a pointed stare. “You never show up.”

All the kids laugh at the call out, and you have to admit, it was kind of funny. You suck in your cheeks to stop yourself from smiling.

“Unfortunately, I already have plans to go camping with my friends, but thank you for the invite. ANYWAY,” he clears his throat. “If there are no more questions about the schedule, then I'll see you all on Tuesday. Have a safe holiday.”

The kids all jump up bags already in hand, racing toward sweet freedom. Parents follow quickly behind them, not wanting to waste their four day weekend. Standing from your seat, you walk down the steps as Nicky and Mark's son race out of the gym together, laughing. As you reach the bottom step, a body suddenly knocks into you, causing you to quickly grab the middle handrail to stabilize yourself so you don't fall over. Ara doesn't even look at you as she continues to walk past you.

“Are you okay?” Yoongi asks, coming up to you.

“She knows,” you tell him as you watch her leave the gym.

“We don't know that,” he replies, tossing some balls to Jungkook on the other side of the gym, who catches them and puts them on a rack.

“Sure,” you say. “I still can't believe you're going camping. How is that even fun? There's bugs and no Wifi.”

“Spending time with my friends in nature, drinking and eating,” he laughs. “What's not to enjoy? We've been doing it since college.”

“Isn't Yeri about to pop that baby out at like … anytime?” You ask.

“She's still got about three weeks, but Joon is only staying one night,” he tells you, and you nod. “You know … just in case.”

“Well,” you sigh. “I have to get home and pack Nicky.”

“Pack Nicky?” He asks, looking confused. “Where is he going?”

“Oh, he's going with my parents to visit some family for a family reunion that they go to every year,” you explain, rolling your eyes. “I'm not allowed to go because I beat this cousin up once. Anyway, they won't be back until Monday.”

“You never told me that,” he says, eyes wide, mouth open.

“I didn't?” You tap your chin acting like you were thinking back on past conversations. “I was going to surprise you, but you spoiled that by going camping. Too bad, we could have had a lot of… fun.” He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut him off. “I'm not mad. I hope you have fun with your friends. I'll just enjoy the peace and quiet for once.”

“Maybe I can…” he begins, but you shake your head. The last thing you wanted to do was ruin a tradition for him and his friends.

“No, tell everyone I said hi and … don't get eaten by a bear,” you smile and pat him on the chest. “I'll see you when you get back.”

Laughing to yourself, you leave the gym making your way to your car and your waiting nephew.

“What's so funny?” He asks as you climb into the driver's seat.

“Nothing,” you say. “Are you ready to get packing?”

“Do I have to go?” He whines. “Grandma's family is weird.”

“I know,” you say, starting your car and pulling away. “But, yes, you have to go. Now listen, your dad was the favorite grandkid. So, really play up being sad around great grandma and grandpa, and I bet you get some cool shit from them.”

“Gottcha, I can do that,” he nods. “Hey, sunshine?”

“Yeah?” You reply.

“WIll you be alright while I'm gone?” He asks. “Coach will be gone too, and I don't want you all alone.”

“What did we talk about?” You question him. “You are not to worry about me. Go and have fun. Be a kid, get in trouble … not too much trouble. Leave all the worries to me.”

“Okay,” he agrees quietly.

You reach over and ruffle his sweaty hair. Sticking your tongue out in disgust, you proceed to wipe your wet hand on his shirt and continue your drive home. Maybe having some time alone wouldn't be too bad. Maybe it would be just what you needed.

Spooning some chocolate cream in your mouth straight from the carton as you laid on the couch while watching what you wanted on the tv felt … boring and almost exhausting. You missed Nicky, you missed Yoongi. Hell, you even missed your brother, and that was saying something. Another spoonful of sweet cream has you shaking your head at the tv.

You've cleaned your house from top to bottom, did a load of laundry, went grocery shopping, and now you're on your sixth hour of trashy reality television. You've never envisioned this being your life, but here you are. It's four thirty, and you're having an early dinner of ice cream in your pajamas while laying on the couch.

“Idiot Mary, you are 56 he is 27 he is only marrying you for a green card,” you say outloud to the black device on the entertainment system. “Morons, you are all a bunch of morons.” Before you dig your spoon into the wax coated carton again, Yoongi crashing through your doorway has you almost dropping everything. “What the fuck…”

Without warning, Yoongi's body covers yours, and the ice cream box hits the coffee table. Lips attaching to yours, tasting the chocolate ice cream that you were indulging in. Moaning as his tongue slips past your lips to entangle with your own.

“What about camping?” You ask breathlessly, pulling back.

“I was so fucking hard lastnight thinking about you,” he groans attacking your neck. “I had to sneak away to my tent early.”

“Oh,” you laugh and pull at his hair as his teeth nip at a sensitive spot just behind your ear. “That doesn't sound very gentlemanly.”

“I have zero plans on being gentlemanly right now,” he informs you, looking you dead in the eyes, making you blink in surprise. “How does that sound?”

“Thank fuck,” you breathe out.

Pulling him down, your lips meet once again in a frenzy of moans and a clash of teeth. You didn't care that it was sloppy. Let it be. Let it be sloppy and wet. Let it be … RAW. Pushing him off you to a sitting position, you straddle his lap and immediately pull your shirt over your head, revealing your very naked torso to him.

“Should we move this to the bedroom?” He asks, sounding just as breathless as you feel.

“No,” you answer, pressing your lips to his neck.

Your fingers find the zipper on his thick fleece jacket, quickly pulling it down and off his shoulders. The both of you struggle to remove the jacket completely off him in your current position. Cursing, you pull back and fuss with pulling the jacket off him before glaring at him.

“How many damn layers are you wearing?” You ask, eyesing the second zip up.

“It was cold,” he defends himself, unzipping this one himself and throwing it across the room.

“Well, you won't be cold for long,” you say, kissing him again, running your hands up and under his shirt against his bare skin until you drag them down to the waistband of his sweatpants. “Don't hold back. I won't break”

“I won't,” he promises, licking his lips and watching your hands toys with his pants. “I'll give you anything you want tonight.”

Smiling, you stand and hook your own thumbs in your flimsy shorts before you slowly drag them down your legs. Standing straight, you kick them to the side and kneel between his legs, pulling his pants down his thighs. You bite your lip, trying not to laugh at how hard he was. He was not lying about getting worked up.

“Did you not take care of this last night?” You ask, jokingly as you take him in the palm of your hand and lick the underneath of his shaft from base to tip, making him hiss as you swirl your tongue around the sensitive tip.

“No,” he groans. “I just willed it away. It would have been too messy.”

“That's no fun,” you tell him before bobbing your head down on him, slowly taking more of him into your mouth each time as you go.

“Fuck, yeah,” he whispers, runnign his fingers through your messy hair. Moaning around him, you take a deep breath through your nose and slowly take him down your throat, causing him to drop his head back against the couch. “Goddamn, doll.”

You swallow around him a couple of times before pulling off him with a gasp and twisting your hand around him. Licking your lips, you take him back in your mouth and work alongside your hand, bringing him to the edge. Looking up at him through your lashes, you almost feel yourself lose it at the way his eyes are closed, and his tongue pokes at the corner of his lips.

Moaning around his length, you double your efforts, speeding up your movements. Watching him, he blinks rapidly as he grabs at his own hair trying to hold onto what self control he had and you knew with that fucking patience of his … he would be able to hold out.

It was a blessing and a curse.

Pulling off of him with a pop, you smirk at him with swollen lips and a wet face. He smirks back at you, eyes focus on your reddened lips. Dropping your head down toward your chest, you push some saliva that has pooled in your mouth out between your lips, making it drip between your breasts.

“What are you doing?” He asks, gazing following the wet trail.

Without answering, you place his still hardened member in the middle of your breasts and envelope it between your ample flesh.

“Having fun,” you answer, dragging his cock up against your body. “What about you?”

“You're too much,” he groans, watching intently as the tip of his cock peeks out at the top of your tits with every shove of your body.

“Should I stop?” You tease, backing away from him. “Are you bored? Maybe you should go back to camping. Go roast marshmallows, sing Kumbaya around the campfire.”

Yoongi grabs you under your arms and lifts you up onto the couch, effectively cutting off your teasing. Dropping to his knees onto the floor, he yanks your body so your ass lines up to the end of the cushions. Looking smug, he reaches over his head and tears his own shirt off, and casts it away somewhere in the room.

“This is familiar, isn't it?” He asks, drawing his tongue down the expanse of your inner thigh. “Except you don't have your dress hiked up over your hips this time. I like this better.”

Bringing his head down, he gives you the sweetest kiss right on the top of your sex before winking at you and letting that wicked tongue of his loose. As his tongue licks and slurps, his hands travel up over every curve of your arching, wiggling body.

“Put them inside me,” you beg.

Bring his hand to his mouth, Yoongi licks his middle and ring finger before running them through your wetness. Slowly, he spreads you open and eases his digits inside of you, causing you to sigh. Sitting back on his knees, he watches as his fingers slide in and out of you with his bottom lip tucked between his teeth.

“Yoongi,” you whine,rocking your hips into his hand. Chuckling, he bends, flicking your clit with his tongue as his fingers curl up just right. Your hands fly up, grabbing the arm of the couch as you push your hips into him harder. “Fuck, yes, Yoongi!”

Moaning against you, his vibrations set off that beautiful spin tingling sensation. His sharp, dark eyes watch as your chest starts to turn red and flush as his fingers press inside of you a bit more firmly. You look down at him, grabbing his blonde hair and press his face completely against you, causing him to groan more deeply. Your toes curl, and your head drops back against the couch as sob escapes your throat when you finally fall off that satisfying cliff. Yoongi wraps his hands around your legs, keeping them apart. Lapping hungrily at your center, not wasting a single drop of your release.

Placing your hand on his forehead, you gently push him away and watch him lick his lips as he moves away from you. He looks drunk on you and dammit, if it wasn't a sight to behold. Half lidded, shiny chin and completely…. in love? You weren't ready for that yet. At least, you didn't think you were.

As Yoongi stands, you slide off the couch, probably ungracefully onto your knees before him once again to pull down his pants all the way. He finally kicks his shoes and remaining clothes off for you to push him into a sitting position where you had him before. Climbing into his lap, you attach your lips to his, as his hands trail up and down you naked back before settling on your bottom, squeezing your plump form.

Reaching between the two of you, you adjust his still very hard member so you slide yourself over it. Yoongi gasps and grasps your hips, trying to stop your movements. You lick your lips nervously as you study his face.

“Are we being stupid right now?” He asks, chest raising and falling quickly.

“I'm not,” you say, leaning forward to rest your forehead on his. “Are you?”

“No,” he says quietly. “Are you sure?”

Reaching back between you, you take him back in your hand and line him up to your entrance. Molding your lips to his, you sink down onto him bare and raw…trusting him fully and completely. That warmth of him spreads through you as you sigh into his mouth, bottoming out on him.

Tilting your head back, you bring your hands back to rest on his knees and roll your hips. It's not a gentle, romantic sway of your hips. No, it's a steady rhythm that you get lost in. A rhythm that has his hands everywhere on you, needing to touch you.

“You're so fucking hot, doll,” he goans, eyes focused purely on your face.

Swiftly, you move to link your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer to him. Bouncing on him, Yoongi snakes his hand down to strum his fingers against your still sensitive clit. Whining, you thrust your hips faster, pushing his face into your neck. You gasp at the sensation of his lips nipping at your overly heated skin.

“Fuck, Yoongi, fuck!” You exclaim, stiffening on his lap as your second wave of pleasure washes over you. His arms that encircled your waist hold you close to him while you catch your breath. Falling forward, you hang your head over his shoulder, lightly pressing your lips against his own heated skin. “Shit.”

“Can we go into your room?” He asks, voice sounding tight, and you lift your head, peeking at him. “The first time I come inside you. I don't want it to be on the couch where we eat half the time.”

Nodding in agreement, Yoongi tightens his grip on you and stands. You hurriedly wrap your legs around his lower back, trying not to fall. Thankfully, your shoebox house was small, and the trip down the hall was fast. Now, on your back, on your bed, Yoongi kisses you and kisses you and kisses you. Pulling back, he takes a moment to admire you, running a finger down the side of your face.

“Yoongi?” You question, looking up at him.

“On your knees,” he orders.

Rolling onto your stomach, you push yourself up onto your knees for him in the middle of the bed. Resting your head on your hands, you close your eyes and take in the way his hands grab your waist, pulling you back to him. The way his fingers sink into your flesh perfectly before they lovingly stroke your naked skin as he lines himself back up to your core.

“Fuck, you're still so wet,” he rasps, running the tip of his cock through your folds. “Are you sure you're okay for more?”

“Yes,” you say, wiggling your hips impatiently.

Pushing forward, you both moan when he enters you. With a hand on your upper back, he pushes the top half of your body down more, causing your back to really arch. His free hand back on your waist, he finally gives you what you need. Pistoning, in and out of you, your mouth drops open at how deep he manages to get inside of you.

“Holy shit!” He swears, bringing both hands down by your head, hovering over your back as his hips still smack away at your ass. “The moment I come inside of you, I'm not letting you go,” he warns, his warm breath fans across your cheek.

“I've been yours,” you choke out, body jostling. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“Y/N, doll, fuck,” he huffs and you reach to run your hand through his sweat soaked strands of hair as his slaps the overly sensitive area between your thighs causing you to sob out his name. His fingers expertly circle the slippery flesh, making you clench around his length. “I need to feel you come around me one more time. Please, doll. Can you do that for me? Can you let me feel that again?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, with the side of your face pressed in your bed, your inner walls already starting to grip him rhythmically.

“Shit, shit, I….I…,” he doesn't finish his thought before pulling hastily out of you, almost ruining your euphoria. Tossing you on your back, he thrusts back into you hitting that sweet spot with every drag of his cock with exact precision causing you to see stars. Your back arches as high pitch whine escapes your throat. You'll be embarrassed about that later. You don't think you've made that noise before. “Look at me!”

Your eyes snap open, trying to focus on your handsome boyfriend, but you feel delirious. His nose comes down and nudges yours, trying to get you to focus on him. You watch as his jaw clenches and how he fights not to close his own eyes, but it is a losing fight. Dropping his head into the crook of your neck, he comes with a long gravelly groan. If you hadn't finished just a moment before, that definitely would have set you off.

As he fully collapses on top of you, pushing you further into the mattress, you wrap your arms around him. Letting your eyes close, you let yourself take in the moment of the afterglow. How safe and secure you felt after something so … intense and vulnerable. Taking a deep breath through your nose, you smile to yourself, rubbing your face across his shoulder. His wonderful warmth spreads over you.

“I love you,” you sigh.

How in the holy mother fucking shit did that slip out!?!

Yoongi's head snaps up to look at you in surprise. You stare wide-eyed up at the ceiling, frozen, unable to look at him. Where did that come from?

“What?” He asks, still looking lost in a haze. “I think I, um…. heard wrong.”

Looking at him, you can feel your heart pounding. Biting the inside of your cheek, you could blame getting caught up in the moment. You could lie and say that he must have been hearing things but dammit, his fucking warmth seeps into your bones. As much as you have tried to deny it, you know how you feel. You know what that warmth really is. It's his cooking for you, his comforting you, his caring for Nicky. It's the way that he always seems to know what you need, even when you don't know what you need. It's everything you've tried to run from.

“I love you,” you repeat, even softer than before.

“I love you, too,” he replies instantaneously before cupping your face with one of his hands. He presses his lips to yours. “I love you, too.”

“You're odd,” you laugh lightly.

“So you've said,” he laughs back. “Come on, we need a good shower before I take you out.”

“What?” You ask. “We can stay in …. sleep. Sleep is good.”

“Nope,” he disagrees, pulling out of you carefully. “We did things a little backward, but you deserve a date.”

“You really want to take me out? Now?” You ask, and he nods. “Fine, fine. What do you have in mind?”

He smiles like he just won some prize, and it makes you want to roll your eyes.

You need to stop giving in to him but … fuck.

He just gave you multiple orgasms.

He deserves it!

Plus, you know …. you love him.

You chuck the empty frozen drink cup you were drinking from in the trash can as you walk by it outside the door. Your other hand was held by Yoongi and was slightly swinging between the two of you walked down the hallway of the packed movie theater.

“Did you see those explosions?” He asks, looking down at you.

“Yeah, they went boom,” you say, and he lets go of your hand to wrap his arm around your shoulders.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “It was the only movie that hadn't started yet. There was a little romance, though.”

“Yeah, dude was married and had some weird emotional affair with that other chick. I laughed when she died,” you say with a smile causing him to laugh. “It's fine. I got to eat popcorn and candy.”

“No kidding,” he agrees. “You went after my candy, too.”

“Fuck off, you were not going to finish it,” you joke.

“Don't talk to the man you love like that,” he teases, leaning down to give you a quick kiss. Making it to the lobby, he parks you by a pillar and lets go of your hand. “I'm going to use the restroom. I'll be right back. Don't move.”

“Where am I going to go?” You ask, rolling your eyes. “You have the keys.”

“Just stay here,” he tells you as he turns and heads for the bathrooms.

Leaning against the pillar, you grab your phone from your bag and swipe through several unimportant notifications. You're going to have to remember to go through and get rid of a lot of useless crap on your phone. Rising your eyes, you scan the strangers around the area before going back to your phone, but unfortunately, that didn't happen. As your eyes sweep over a group of men at the counter, your blood runs cold as your grip on your phone tightens. Your gaze zeros in on one man in particular. One that looks all too familiar. One that comes straight out of your nightmares.

His hair is longer.

His beard is gone.

Fuck, you can't even be sure that it's him from this distance but he looks about the right height. He also has the same athletic build but you can't see his tattoos under the long sleeve shirt. Moving behind the pillar, you peek around and squint your eyes, hoping to get a better look.

“Turn around,” you say softly to yourself. “Come on, turn around.”

The group of men stand there talking, collecting their items, not noticing that they were being watched by you. The more you watch the one, the more you doubt that it's him, but what if it was? You think that his hair might be lighter than Jay's, but maybe … not? Jay might be a little taller, but it was too hard to tell.

The group moves to the drink station. It right there. In perfect eye shot. But his back was to you, but you knew. Everything inside of you knew. Watching with bated breath, he pushes his sleeve up his arm to reveal the tattoos hidden underneath, and suddenly, your hands start to shake.

You were there when he got the large pocket watch tattooed on his forearm, and there it was. The black and gray ink reading 9:05 the time his grandfather passed. It was right there. It still looks clean and crisp as if he just got it done.

It was him.

“What are you doing?” Yoongi asks

Turning from the pillar, you throw yourself at him. You hug him tightly while pushing him toward the exit.

“We need to go,” you say. “We need to go now!”

“What's wrong?” He asks, clearly picking up on your panic.

“Yoongi, we need to go,” you say again. “Please!”

“Okay,” grabbing your hand, the two of you quickly make your exit into the cold night air. You look over your shoulder a couple of times during the short walk to the car, hoping that he didn't come out of the building, hoping he didn't see you. As you get to Yoongi's car, you practically throw yourself at it, not giving him time to open the door for you as he normally does.

“Please hurry,” you tell him as he gets in.

“Will you tell me what's going on?” He asks, starting the car and driving away. “You're freaking me out again.”

Sitting back against the passenger seat, you take a deep breath and look out the window at the headlights from the passing cars driving by. You can't hold off any longer. You have to tell him, but you don't want to ruin this night.

It was supposed to be special.

“Not tonight,” you say, and he taps his thumb on the steering wheel. He's annoyed. You know it. You don't blame him. “Tomorrow, not tonight.”

“Promise?” He questions, moving his hand to lay it gently on your leg.

“I promise,” you nod. “Tomorrow. I'll tell you everything tomorrow.”

You feel like you're going to be sick.

You hope tomorrow never comes!

《Chapter 17》

Tagged Readers

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[mrs-delaney]

Teleport 2 Me

Joe Burrow x Reader

Word Count: 4.4k and some change

Request: I was wondering to get a Joe burrow imagine where his fiancé is planning a surprise with kid cudi for their wedding. Whether it is kid cudi singing their first dance song or singing her down the aisle towards to Joe. But she had to turn off her location so the surprise can work because Joe would see where she at if she was taking forever to come home.

Author's Note: I loved the concept of this request immediately! The idea of trying to coordinate one of Joe's favs like Kid Cudi while keeping it from someone as observant as he is? Pure disaster potential. I chose the first dance route with "Teleport 2 Me" because the lyrics about wanting to be close despite distance felt perfect for them.

Thanks to the anon who requested this - hope it lived up to what you were imagining! 🤍 I'm slowly but surely working through them I promise.

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🌙 ask box is open — come keep me company, i’m around tonight 💌

You pulled into the driveway at 10:47 PM, which was later than you'd told Joe you'd be home. Again. Every light in the house was on—porch lights, upstairs lights, the whole first floor lit up. Joe's way of letting you know he was awake and waiting without saying it.

Probably watching film. 

Your phone buzzed with a text from Cudi's manager: Rehearsal tomorrow at 2. Can you make it?

Tomorrow Joe had meetings with his agent until 4, which meant you could easily make it and be home before he was. You typed back: I'll be there.

The front door opened before you could reach it.

"Long day?" Joe asked, stepping aside to let you in. His voice was casual, but you caught the way his eyes scanned your face, looking for something. Clues.

"The Kroger campaign is killing me," you said, which wasn't technically a lie. The Kroger campaign was killing you—it just wasn't why you'd been gone for twelve hours. "Sorry I'm so late."

Joe nodded, following you into the kitchen. "You eat?"

"Grabbed something at the office." Another lie. You'd eaten takeout at the recording studio while listening to Kid Cudi run through "Teleport 2 Me" for the third time, making sure it would be perfect for your first dance.

"You've never had to work Sundays before."

The comment was light, conversational, but you knew Joe well enough to hear the edge underneath. He was starting to notice patterns. Starting to ask the questions you'd been dreading.

"It's just until the wedding," you said, hating how easily the deflection came. "Then everything calms down."

Joe's laptop was open on the counter, some defensive scheme paused mid-play. He'd been waiting for you to get home. Had been waiting for hours.

"Come here," he said quietly.

You stepped closer, letting him pull you between his knees where he sat on the barstool. His hands settled at your waist, thumbs brushing against the fabric of your shirt.

"You sure you're okay? You've been..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Pulling away lately."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. Three weeks of this secret had you jumping at shadows, and Joe's ability to read people like a book wasn't making it any easier.

"I'm not pulling away," you said quickly, reaching up to touch his face. "I'm just stressed about work and the wedding and trying to get everything perfect for us. I love you. I can't wait to marry you. It's just... a lot right now."

That got a small smile out of him, but his eyes stayed concerned.

"3 more days," he said, like he was trying to convince himself everything was normal.

* * *

You'd been at the venue for three hours, watching Kid Cudi run through the acoustic arrangement of "Teleport 2 Me" while his sound engineer adjusted levels for the reception space. Your phone had been buzzing periodically with texts from Joe, but you'd kept it on silent, location services turned off. The last thing you needed was him seeing you were at the wedding venue when you'd told him you were staying late at the office.

How's the Kroger campaign going?

Want me to pick up dinner?

Call me when you're wrapping up

Each message made your stomach twist a little tighter. Five days until the wedding, and you were running out of believable excuses for these long absences.

"I think we've got it," Cudi said, setting down his guitar. "The acoustic version's going to be perfect for the first dance."

You smiled, finally allowing yourself to feel excited instead of anxious. "He's going to lose his mind. He has no clue."

"Good. That's what we're going for." He grinned. "Man, I can't wait to see his reaction. This is gonna be special." He stood up, stretching. "Same time tomorrow for final soundcheck?"

Tomorrow's rehearsal was scheduled for 2 PM again, right when Joe would be at his final suit fitting. Another narrow window to coordinate around his schedule.

"I'll be there."

The drive home felt longer than usual, your mind already crafting explanations for why you'd been unreachable for the past hour. Traffic. Difficult client. Phone on silent during a presentation. All technically possible, none of them true.

Joe's car was in the garage when you pulled in.

"Hey," you called as you walked in, dropping your purse on the counter. "Sorry, that meeting ran forever."

Joe looked up from his laptop, where he appeared to be reviewing some kind of contract. "No problem. How'd it go?"

"Good. Finally got the creative approved." The lie came easily now, which should have bothered you more than it did. "What time did you get home?"

"Around six." He closed the laptop, giving you his full attention. "Your location's been off all day."

The statement was casual, conversational, but something in his tone made you freeze. You forced yourself to look confused, pulling out your phone.

"What? Let me check..." You tapped through to settings, pretending to investigate while your heart hammered. "That's weird."

Joe was already pulling up his phone, fingers moving across the screen with practiced ease. "It's back on now," he said, turning the screen toward you. There you were, a little dot on the map in your kitchen.

You stared at it for a beat too long before responding. "Huh. That's weird. I didn't turn it off. Must be a glitch."

"Must be," Joe agreed, but his eyes stayed on your face.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken questions. Joe had always been good at reading tells—it's what made him great at his position, the ability to see what defenses were really doing beneath the surface. And right now, you felt completely transparent.

"I'm going to shower," you said finally, needing to escape his analytical gaze.

"Yeah, okay." He reopened his laptop, but you could feel him watching as you headed toward the stairs.

In the bathroom, you leaned against the closed door and exhaled slowly. That had been close.  Joe wasn't stupid, and he definitely wasn't the type to let inconsistencies slide without eventually asking direct questions.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Cudi's manager: Tomorrow's rehearsal moved to 1 PM. Still work for you?

You typed back quickly: Perfect. See you then.

One more day. One more lie. And then Joe would understand why you'd been so secretive, why you'd been pulling away, why you'd been turning your location off and coming home exhausted from "work meetings" that made no sense.

When you came back downstairs twenty minutes later, Joe was still at the counter, but his laptop was closed again. He looked up as you entered the kitchen, and something in his expression had shifted.

"Everything okay?" you asked, though you weren't sure you wanted to hear the answer.

"Yeah," he said, but his tone suggested otherwise. "Just thinking."

About what, you wanted to ask, but didn't. Because you were pretty sure you already knew.

Joe stood, moving toward you with that measured way he approached everything when he was processing information. His hands found your waist, thumbs brushing against your sides.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" he said quietly. "If something's going on, if you're stressed about the wedding or work or... if you're having second thoughts, we can cancel everything right now and just do something you and me. Whatever you need."  The sincerity in his voice almost broke you. Here he was, offering you an out, a chance to come clean, and all you could do was lie to his face again.

"I know," you said, reaching up to touch his jaw. "I want this wedding, Joe. I want to marry you in front of everyone. It's just work stuff - I've been putting in extra hours because of all the time we're taking off for the honeymoon. I promise it'll calm down once we're back."

Joe nodded, but you could see he wasn't entirely convinced. His quarterback brain was filing away details, building a case, waiting for more evidence before making his move.

"Okay," he said simply, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I trust you."

The words hit like a punch to the chest. He trusted you, and you were lying to him 2 days before your wedding. For a good reason, but still lying.

"I love you," you said, meaning it more than you'd ever meant anything.

"I love you too."

But as he held you in the quiet kitchen, you could feel something shifting between you. A small crack in the foundation of trust you'd built together, one that you hoped would heal completely when he finally understood what you'd been doing.

2 more days. You just had to make it 2 more days.

* * *

You were running out of believable excuses, and Joe was running out of patience.

"I can come with you," he'd said that morning when you mentioned needing to run wedding errands. "Help carry stuff, keep you company."

The offer was sweet and completely normal, which made lying about it feel even worse.

"I'm just getting my nails done baby" you'd said quickly. "Rumi is coming with me. Girl time, you know?"

Joe had nodded, but something in his expression suggested he was filing that information away with all the other inconsistencies he'd been cataloging.

Now you were pulling into the driveway after three and a half hours at the venue, coordinating final details with Kid Cudi and his team. Your phone showed two missed texts from Joe:

Nails taking forever?

You good?

You'd responded with vague reassurances about the salon being busy, but as you walked toward the front door, you realized your hands looked exactly the same as when you'd left that morning.

Joe was in the kitchen when you walked in, laptop closed in front of him, arms crossed. The posture of someone who'd been thinking.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

"Good. They were super busy, but Rumi and I got to catch up." The lie felt heavier each time you told one. "Sorry it took so long."

Joe's eyes dropped to your hands, taking in your unchanged manicure with the same analytical precision he used to read defensive formations.

"It doesn't take three and a half hours to get your fucking nails done."

The statement hung between you, sharp and pointed. You looked down at your hands, realizing too late that your excuse had fallen apart before you'd even made it through the door.

"They were really backed up," you said weakly. "And we grabbed lunch after."

"Your nails look exactly the same as they did this morning."

There was frustration in his voice, that quiet anger that meant he was putting pieces together and didn't like what he was finding. You could practically see him building his case, the same way he processed information on the field.

Your phone rang before you could respond, Kid Cudi's manager's name flashing on the screen. The timing couldn't have been worse.

"I should take this," you said, already moving toward the sliding door to the backyard.

"At 8 PM? The night before our wedding?"

You were already outside, pressing accept before Joe could ask any more questions.

"Hey, Dennis," you said quietly, glancing back toward the house. Joe was still visible through the glass, watching.

"Just wanted to confirm timing for tomorrow," Dennis said. "Cudi will be there at six for final sound check. We've got the acoustic guitar ready, and he knows to stay hidden until the DJ calls him out."

"Perfect," you whispered, turning away from the house. "And he remembers—"

"Make sure Joe can't know until the moment, yeah. We've kept it secret this long, we're not blowing it now."

Relief flooded through you. Tomorrow night, all of this secrecy would finally make sense. Joe would understand why you'd been pulling away, why you'd been lying, why you'd been—

The sliding door opened behind you.

"I have to go," you said quickly, ending the call.

Joe was standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable in the dim porch light.

"Work call?" he asked as you walked back inside.

"Yeah, just... client thing."

"At eight PM. The night before our wedding." His voice was still level, but you could hear the edge creeping in. "About someone who can't know what?"

Your stomach dropped. "What?"

"I heard you. 'Make sure he can't know until...' and something about keeping secrets." Joe closed the sliding door behind you, his movements deliberate. "Who is 'he'? And what have you been keeping secret?"

The kitchen suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in as Joe's pale blue eyes stayed fixed on your face. This was it. The moment you'd been dreading for three weeks.

"It's not what you think—"

"Then tell me what it is." He stepped closer, and you could see the hurt starting to break through his controlled exterior. "Because from where I'm standing, my fiancée has been lying to me for weeks. Disappearing for hours, turning her location off, taking mysterious calls about keeping secrets from some guy."

"Joe—"

"You said you were getting your nails done, but they look exactly the same. You've been 'working late' every night for two weeks. Your location's been off more times than I can count." His voice was getting quieter, more controlled, which somehow made it worse. "So help me understand what I'm missing here."

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Every instinct screamed to tell him the truth, to end this nightmare and explain everything. But tomorrow was your wedding day. Tomorrow night, when Kid Cudi walked out with his guitar, Joe would understand. You just had to make it eighteen more hours.

"I can't," you said finally.

"You can't." Joe repeated the words like he was testing how they sounded. "You can't tell your fiancé what you've been doing or who you've been talking to."

"It's not like that."

"Then what is it like?" The hurt was fully visible now, cutting through his usual composure. "Because I'm running out of explanations that don't involve you seeing someone else."

The accusation hit like a physical blow. "How can you say that? How can you think that about me?"

"What am I supposed to think?" Joe's voice cracked slightly. "You disappear for hours with bullshit excuses. You're taking secret calls about some guy who can't know something. You won't tell me what's going on." He ran a hand through his hair, the first sign of his legendary control slipping. "If you're having second thoughts about us, about the wedding, just tell me. Don't... don't do this."

"I'm not having second thoughts." The words came out fierce, desperate. "I love you. I want to marry you tomorrow more than I've ever wanted anything."

"Then tell me what's going on."

You stared at him, this man you loved more than breathing, watching him break apart because of your lies. Every fiber of your being wanted to explain, to take away the pain in his eyes, to make him understand that everything you'd done was for him.

"I can't," you whispered again.

Something shifted in Joe's expression then, shutting down like a computer going into safe mode. The hurt was still there, but buried under layers of protection.

"Okay," he said quietly. "I guess I'll figure it out eventually."

He moved past you toward the stairs, his shoulder brushing yours in the narrow space.

"Joe, wait—"

"I'm sleeping in the guest room tonight," he said without turning around. "And if there's someone else... if that's what this is... don't make me stand up there tomorrow. Just tell me now."

You listened to his footsteps on the stairs, heard the guest room door close with a soft click. The kitchen fell silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of your heart breaking.

Eighteen more hours. You just had to survive eighteen more hours, and then he'd understand. Then he'd know that every lie, every secret, every moment of distance had been because you loved him so much you were willing to risk everything to give him something perfect.

* * *

You didn't see Joe until you were walking down the aisle.

The morning had been a whirlwind of hair and makeup and your sister fussing over the bustle of your dress, everyone too busy to notice that you kept checking your phone for updates from Kid Cudi's team. The ceremony was at four, reception at six, and Cudi had already done his sound check that morning while you were getting ready. Everything was falling into place exactly as you'd planned for three weeks.

But first, you had to marry Joe.

When the music started and the doors opened, revealing the intimate garden ceremony you'd dreamed about, your breath caught. There he was, standing at the altar in his perfectly tailored navy suit, hands clasped in front of him, looking like he'd stepped out of a magazine. But it was his face that made your chest tighten.

The moment he saw you, everything shifted. The careful distance from this morning, the hurt from last night—all of it dissolved as his expression transformed into something soft and wondering. This was the Joe you'd fallen in love with, the one who looked at you like you were the only person in the world who mattered.

Your dad squeezed your arm as you reached the altar. "He's a good one," he whispered, placing your hand in Joe's.

"Hi," Joe said quietly, just for you, that slight smile tugging at his lips.

"Hi," you whispered back, and suddenly everything else faded away.

The ceremony passed in a blur of joy and laughter and tears. When it came time for vows, Joe's voice was steady and sure as he promised to love you through everything life threw at you, to be your constant in an unpredictable world, to choose you every single day for the rest of his life.

When you promised to be his safe place, his teammate, his biggest supporter, you meant every word. Even if you'd been lying to him for three weeks, even if he'd questioned everything last night, this moment was pure truth.

"You may kiss your bride."

Joe's hands framed your face as he kissed you, soft and reverent, and the small crowd erupted in cheers. When you broke apart, he pressed his forehead to yours.

"We did it," he murmured.

"We did it," you agreed, grinning so wide your cheeks hurt.

"I love you so much," he whispered, just for you, his voice thick with emotion.

"I love you too," you whispered back, and he kissed you again, softer this time.

The cocktail hour flew by in a haze of congratulations and photos and champagne. You caught Joe watching you during pictures, that little furrow between his brows that meant he was thinking.

"You okay?" you asked during a brief moment alone while the photographer adjusted lighting.

"Yeah," he said, reaching for your hand. "About last night—"

"After," you said quickly, squeezing his fingers. "Let's just enjoy this, okay? We'll talk about everything after."

Joe studied your face for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. But we are going to talk."

"I know. I promise."

Dinner passed in a blur of toasts and laughter and the best food you'd ever tasted. Joe seemed more relaxed as the evening went on, falling back into his usual rhythm of dry jokes and quiet observations that made you laugh until your sides hurt. This was your husband now. Your husband, who had no idea what was coming.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the DJ's voice cut through the gentle chatter of your sixty guests, "it's time for our newlyweds' first dance."

This was it.

Joe stood immediately, extending his hand with that easy confidence that made everything look effortless. "Ready, Mrs. Burrow?"

The name still sent a thrill through you. "I'm ready, Mr. Burrow."

He led you to the center of the dance floor, his hand finding its familiar place at the small of your back, the other intertwining your fingers. Around you, chairs scraped as guests turned to watch, phones already appearing to capture the moment.

"Just like we practiced," Joe murmured, that slight smile playing at his lips. "Try not to step on my feet."

"That was one time," you protested, laughing despite your nerves.

"It was more than three," he corrected, grinning. 

The familiar banter steadied you, reminded you why this surprise would be perfect. Joe had no idea that his favorite artist was about to walk out and perform the song that had gotten you both through so many late nights and long separations.

"Before we begin," the DJ announced, "the bride has a very special surprise for her new husband."

Joe's hand tightened reflexively around yours, confusion flickering across his features. "What—"

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Kid Cudi."

The words seemed to hang in the air for a split second before Joe's expression shifted from confusion to complete shock. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again, his eyes widening as he stared at you like you'd just performed actual magic.

From the side of the reception space, Kid Cudi emerged with an acoustic guitar, moving toward the simple stool and microphone setup that had appeared during dinner. The intimate crowd erupted in surprised murmurs and scattered applause, but Joe didn't seem to hear any of it.

He was staring at you like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

"You didn't," he breathed, voice barely audible over the growing excitement from your guests.

"I did," you whispered, watching his face cycle through shock, understanding, and something that looked close to tears.

Kid Cudi settled onto the stool, adjusting the guitar across his lap. When he spoke into the microphone, his voice was warm and genuine: "This is for Joe and his beautiful wife Y/N. Congratulations, man."

Joe's composure—that legendary calm that stayed intact under fourth-quarter pressure—finally cracked. His jaw worked for a moment like he was trying to find words that didn't exist, his hand squeezing yours tighter like he needed to feel something real.

"All those late nights," he said slowly, pieces clicking into place with almost audible precision. "The meetings that didn't make sense. Your location being off."

You nodded, thumb tracing over his knuckles. "I really hated lying to you."

"All those meetings." His voice carried that quiet amazement he got when he finally understood how a play was designed to work. "You were planning this with him."

"For weeks," you confirmed. "Planning this. Making sure it was perfect."

The opening guitar notes of "Teleport 2 Me" filled the space, gentle and acoustic and impossibly intimate. When Cudi's voice joined the melody, singing the words that had meant everything to you both —

Gettin in from the airport

You're gettin in from your study group

The only thing missing at this point is bonafide chillin time with you

Joe's carefully controlled expression finally shattered completely.

"Baby," he managed, voice thick with emotion. "You brought him here. For us."

"Don't cry at our wedding," you whispered, reaching up to catch the tear before it fell, even though your own eyes were burning.

He laughed, the sound watery and incredulous. "Don't cry? You coordinated with Kid Cudi to sing our song at our wedding. I think crying is pretty reasonable right now."

You started to sway as the music swelled, Joe pulling you closer than you'd practiced, needing you against him while he processed the magnitude of what you'd done. Cudi's voice wrapped around you: 

I want you girl and I need your body right here

Won't you teleport to me

I want you girl and I need your body right here

Won't you teleport to me

"This song," Joe murmured against your temple, "when I first played it for you..."

"When you were in Miami for a game," you finished. "And you said you wished you could just teleport home to me."

"I can't believe you remembered that. I can't believe you did this."

"I remember everything about you, Joe Burrow."

As the song continued, Joe caught sight of your families watching. His mom was crying, his dad had that proud smile he wore during big games. Your parents looked stunned and delighted. But mostly, he was aware of this moment—of Cudi singing —

A moment of loneliness and I can't close my eyes

Without you by my side

While he held his wife, finally understanding why you'd been so stressed, so secretive, so careful about keeping this surprise intact.

"I thought..." Joe started, then stopped, jaw tightening slightly.

"What?" you asked, pulling back to see his face properly.

"Last night, I thought you were..." He couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't even say the words out loud now that he knew the truth.

Your heart broke a little. "Joe, no. Never. This—" you gestured subtly toward Cudi, toward the impossibility of what you'd pulled off "—this is how much I love you."

When the song reached its emotional peak—

Hey, hey 

Teleport to me

Right here

Won't you teleport to me baby

Joe spun you gently, bringing you back against his chest.

"I'm sorry," he said into your ear, voice rough with emotion. "I'm so sorry I doubted you."

"You had every reason to," you replied. "I was being shady as hell."

"For this," he said, like he still couldn't quite believe it. "You were being shady to surprise me with Kid Cudi at our wedding."

"Worth it?" you asked as the song began to wind down.

Joe's answer was the way he kissed you—soft, grateful, overwhelmed—while their families and friends exploded into applause around them.

"So worth it," he murmured against your lips. "Best surprise of my life."

As the guitar notes faded into silence, Joe looked toward Kid Cudi, who was standing from the stool. Without hesitation, Joe crossed the few steps to him, pulling him into a genuine embrace.

"Thank you," Joe said, and everyone close enough could hear the emotion in his voice. "That was... thank you."

"Your wife's pretty special," Cudi replied, grinning. "She's been planning this for months. Wouldn't let me mess up a single detail."

Joe looked back at you, still standing in the middle of the dance floor, watching him with that soft smile that had made him fall in love with you in the first place.

"Yeah," he said, voice carrying that quiet certainty that defined everything important in his life. "She really is."

[spookysanta]

Chapter 8: Morning Glory & Missed Messages

Ongoing tags: [Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

Read Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. Part 7.

yeaaaaah get into it! three-day work week this week + a shit ton of ideas + lots of drafts = a lot of shit coming your way! we're gonna keep on trucking with more of the checklist fics - "payback (with interest)." is next. v excited with the nastiness that'll ensue in that fic. make sure you got fresh draws on. or no draws. whatever you'd prefer.

You woke up slow. Still tangled in him. Still quite sore. But in that sweet, stretched-out way. Still drunk on the way he held you even after everything, like his arms were your address now.

His chest rose and fell against your cheek, his fingers tracing lazy shapes along the curve of your spine. There wasn’t any rush, no tension. Just the kind of morning that felt earned.

“You awake?” he murmured, breaking the morning’s quiet.

“Barely.”

“Wanna sleep more?”

You shook your head. “Don’t wanna miss this.”

He smiled, kissing your shoulder. “What’s this?”

“Us…The morning…You…Not letting me go yet.”

He hummed gently as a reply. The two of you laid there for a while – mumbles about everything that followed after today.

Upcoming flights, work schedules, and most importantly, what came next. “I want to see you soon,” he said with a knowing sigh. “Like next-week soon.”

“I want that too.”

“You fly home tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll come to you Sunday. That cool?”

You smiled. “That fast?”

He kissed your shoulder again, chuckling at your surprise, but also knowing you couldn’t say no to him. “Duh. I’ll have waited long enough already.”

The rest of the morning morphed into the two of you getting dressed, beginning with a shared shower – steam filling the bathroom in a warm haze, hands smoothing over soapy skin, slow kisses, wet fingers, and his voice in your ear like warm velvet.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, holding your face in his hands. “I swear I could wash you every day.”

You giggled, fingers wrapped around his waist, the steam not being the only heat against your cheeks. “You’re so dramatic.”

He couldn't help but chuckle, “You’re laughin’ but I was dead serious.”

He turned the water off, helping you out of the shower before wrapping you both in towels that could only be described as clouds against your skin. You stood side-by-side as you brushed your teeth, bumping his hip with yours when he tried to kiss your cheek with toothpaste foaming around his mouth.

The two of you climbed back into bed and he called downstairs to order room service – pancakes, bacon, fruit, eggs, tea, coffee, extra hash browns “just in case”. But the moment the room’s phone hit the receiver, your phone started buzzing.

You snorted as you scrolled through your notifications, fingers typing fast before anyone freaked out (even more than they already were, apparently).

You had barely hit send when the screen lit up again: 

tatiannaaaaaaaa rennaye wants to FaceTime you.

You groaned.

Michael looked over, brows furrowing in concern. “Everything okay?”

“My friends think I’m either kidnapped or dead.”

“Tell them I’m ordering eggs.”

You answered, instinctively rolling your eyes, but choosing to put a smile in your voice. “Hi.”

“Girl,” Tati snapped. “We almost sent a wellness check.”

“I’m fine. I slept in.”

“You slept with your whole soul,” she said. “Send proof of life.”

You flipped the camera, pointing it at Michael, who was shirtless and sitting cross-legged on the bed with his phone in one hand, his other hand brushing the small of your back.

Tati blinked. “Okay, I’ll allow it,” she responded in satisfaction. “You can stay a little longer.”

“Thanks, Mom.” you replied with a laugh, saying your goodbyes as a knock rapped against the suite’s door.

You both ate breakfast in bed, sharing bites, fruit from his fork, and soft silence broken only by tiny laughs and syrupy moans over the pancakes.

And after breakfast, he helped you gather your things while he gathered his own. He tied his your hoodie drawstring nice and tight, in the way that he’s come to know you loved. 

He pressed a kiss to your temple, holding your hand all the way down to the lobby for checkout.

—

The ride back to your hotel was quiet. Not sad. Just full. It was like both of you were already counting down to when you’d see each other again.

As he’d been doing, he walked you to your suite; and before you opened the door, he turned to you. “I can take y’all to the airport, if you want. Help y’all save a bit of money on Uber.” he mumbled.

You sighed, appreciating the gesture but not wanting to have to go to the airport at all. “Yeah… I think that’d be nice.”

He nodded, leaning in and kissing your cheek, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you into him. “Sounds good.”

“Don’t let us oversleep.”

“Yes ma’am. I’ll be outside at eight.”

“Got it.”

Then, gently, like he couldn’t help it, he peppered kissed against your forehead. “Bye, baby.”

When you unlocked the suite’s door and shut it behind you, four women stared you down like you’d walked in wearing a wedding dress.

“You made it!” Nas cheered, secretly eyeing the hickey that bloomed against the collar of the hoodie you were wearing.

“Unkidnapped,” Lex added.

“You smell like sin,” Kris noted. “…and pancakes.”

You dropped your bag. “I need to lay down.”

“No,” Tati said. “Your ass needs to pack. We’re leaving in the morning.”

You groaned. “I just came back.”

“Girl,” Nas said, “you left.”

And once again, like clockwork, the suite was full of laughter, of voices, of rustling bags, of rolling suitcases and shared mirrors and the sound of the last day beginning.

The sun dipped low around seven. Golden light poured in through the windows as the suite buzzed with motion — curling irons back on the counters, open suitcases half-packed, outfit pieces flying across the couch like nobody was actually ready to go.

“We said casual,” Nas reminded as Tati tugged on a strapless jumpsuit and posed in the mirror like she was going to a red carpet.

“This is casual,” Tati replied. “For me.”

“I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt,” you said from the bathroom, one brow arched.

“That’s because you’re glowing,” Kris cut in, smirking from the edge of the bed. “You could show up in a paper bag and still outshine all of us.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, because she was right. You were glowing. You still had a little bit of that warmth in your thighs, that softness in your chest.

—

The rooftop club was quiet this time of night. Not empty, just relaxed – groups scattered in corners, music playing low from someone’s phone speaker. You found a spot by the balcony, a perfect view of the city below, the skyline glittering in the distance.

And of course, drinks were ordered. Fries were set in the middle of the table. Phone cameras were flashing from every angle.

“Okay, everyone hold still,” Lex said, angling her camera in her selfie stick that she forgot she’d packed. “Golden hour is giving.”

Tati leaned in. Kris lifted her glass. Nas kissed Lex’s cheek. You smiled without trying.

Click.

Click.

Click.

And for a moment, it all felt suspended, like this could stretch out forever if you let it. No one brought up flights or suitcases or the fact that you’d be going to bed in a different city this time tomorrow.

Everyone just… existed. In the shimmer. In the sound. In the love.

—

Back in the suite, the noise of the night quieted as you crossed the threshold. People trudged to different parts of the suite – almost testing to see if time would move slower if they did. 

Lex was packing, softly humming. Nas was editing the night’s photos. Tati and Kris were debating whether or not to order room service dessert.

You slipped into your bedroom, your phone in hand, thumb hovering over the contact.

You didn’t even have to press anything before your phone lit up.

michael b. jordan (no seriously) is calling you…

You answered fast, like you’d been waiting. “Hey.”

His voice came through low and warm. “Hi, pretty girl.”

You exhaled.

“How was the night?” he asked.

“Perfect.” you sighed in contentment, slipping your clothes off to change into pajamas consisting of a shirt that you may or may not have borrowed from his duffel bag. You sat on the bed, leaning back against the headboard.

“You eat?”

“Mhm.”

“What’d you have?”

“We shared a plate of fries and a bottle of wine and took, like, thirty pictures in front of string lights.”

He chuckled. “That sounds like heaven.”

“It kinda was.”

There was a pause after that. You weren’t sure why your throat felt tight, but it made you afraid to speak.

And of course, he noticed. “You okay?”

You blinked hard, feeling your eyes well up, wiping your cheeks as tears started to fall. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You nodded, then realized he couldn’t see you. “I just…”

He heard the sadness in your voice clear as day. He didn’t miss a beat. “FaceTime me. Let me look at you.”

As much as you wanted to fight him on it, you knew it would be an uphill battle. So you caved, pulling the phone from your cheek and pressing the “FaceTime” button. It connected immediately. And you’d finally seen yourself, eyes shimmering and puffy with fresh tears, cheeks damp.

And then you saw him. His eyebrows were furrowed, as if he wanted to pull you through the phone to grab you. You could see the heartbreak splayed across his face.

“I don’t wanna go,” you whispered, voice broken. The honesty cracked open like glass – soft but deep. The tears flowed freely then, wet and hot against your cheeks in a way that made your heart ache in sadness and slight embarrassment.

“I know,” he said. “I don’t want you to either.”

You were quiet except for the occasional sniffle as he let the silence breathe.

“I’ve been thinking about tomorrow,” he added. “About seeing you off. About how fast this week flew.”

You swallowed thickly.

“And I keep wondering to myself… how in the hell did you get under my skin this quick?”

You let out a deep, shaky breath, rubbing the wetness on your cheeks away with your palm.

“Because I see you,” he continued. “I see the way you try to make space for everybody else before you make it for yourself. I see how scared you are to ask for something real. And I see how hard you fight to believe that someone could choose you first.”

More tears welled in your eyes.

“You deserve to be chosen, babygirl,” he said. “Every. Single. Time.”

You didn’t speak. Or rather, couldn’t. 

He softened his voice even more. “I’m gonna miss you like hell. But I’m not going anywhere. You know that, right?”

You nodded simply. “Yes. I know,” you whispered.

“And I’ll call when you land…”

You nodded again.

“...I’ll come to you next. And after that, we’ll figure out what’s next.”

You breathed in, letting out another sigh, finally getting yourself together. “I want there to be a next.”

“There will be. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

You laughed, the smile he was searching for finally appearing.

“You gonna be OK?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“Good. Call me if you need me.” He said your name like a kiss. “Goodnight, baby.”

“Goodnight.”

The call ended. You wiped your eyes before stepping back out into the suite’s common area. To the girls, to the laughter, to the final night that still had a little magic left in it.

You stayed up a little longer after everything cleared out.

But it wasn’t because you weren’t tired – you absolutely were – but because the moment felt suspended. Like the room knew it would all end in the morning and wanted to stretch out every breath of it.

Lex had laid on the floor of the common area, having pulled her suitcase out from her room and leaving it half-opened in the middle of the room.

Nas had started braiding her hair while sitting on the couch, playing reruns of Jersey Shore.

Tati and Kris were finishing off the rest of the wine in the kitchenette, flipping through their camera rolls, arguing over whose angles were strongest.

You just sat on the kitchenette’s counter, Michael’s shirt hugging your frame, blanket laid across your lap, already feeling the ache rise up again.

“You okay, hun?” Tati asked, noticing the change in your face.

You nodded. “I just… don’t want this to be over.”

—

You fell asleep later than you meant to, but not too late. You’d made sure to set your alarm. Already laid out your clothes and packed everything except your toothbrush.

When the morning came, it arrived gently – grey skies, soft light, and the kind of stillness that made you breathe a little deeper.

Everyone moved like clockwork. No chaos this time, just quiet groans and zippers. Matching sweats and puffed-up neck pillows, final checks, last wipes of lip balm, sighs into coffee cups.

You looked at the clock just as your phone buzzed.

After gathering luggage downstairs, you met him in the hotel’s courtyard. He was standing by the car, back door open, trunk popped. Black sweats and a Bulls snapback on his head. His eyes were low, like he himself was overwhelmed with emotion but wouldn’t let it show. 

But he was still fine, and still one of the safest things you’d seen all week.

He looked up and smiled sadly as you stepped through the lobby doors, girls behind you with rolling suitcases and sunglasses, moving like a slow parade. “There y’all go.”

Tati gave him a once-over. “You’re lucky we didn’t oversleep.”

“Would’ve waited,” he said easily with a shrug. “Would’ve brought croissants.”

Nas rolled her eyes. “Charmer.”

“I mean it.” He loaded every bag into his truck, checked every headcount, and opened every door. By the time you climbed into the passenger seat next to him – seatbelt clicked, bag under your knees – you felt the air shift again.

Like it always did when it was just the two of you.

The ride to the airport was full of that last-day energy: a little slap-happy, a little sentimental, and a lot of shared glances across the car.

Lex played a playlist softly through her phone.

Kris whispered a prayer over everyone’s flights.

Tati was texting the girls' group chat from within the car, sending blurry pictures of Michael from behind his headrest with a string of flame emojis and the caption: “our driver is fine as hell.”

You leaned into the window and laughed.

He caught your reflection.

And at the terminal, the car idled in the drop-off lane. Of course, Michael got out first and unloaded the luggage, saying his goodbyes and giving short hugs to the girls.

Then it was your turn. You’d gotten out of the car last, stepping out slow, having needed an extra second to collect yourself. Your heart was in your throat as you walked to him and grabbed your luggage from his hold. “I don’t wanna say goodbye,” you said quietly, feeling the heat in your face rise again for what seemed like the hundredth time in 24 hours.

“You’re not.” He reached for you, palm cradling your jaw, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “You’re gonna go. You’re gonna land. You’re gonna text me.”

You nodded.

“And I’m gonna call – and text – and whatever else you need, as many times as we need to. And then, I’m gonna book a flight to come see you.”

“That doesn’t sound casual to me.” You joked with a short chuckle. 

“Because it ain’t – and if I gotta remind you every day, I will.” 

You kissed him first without any hesitation. Soft. Full. Like every second between now and next time had to be soaked in this moment.

When you pulled back, he didn’t let go. “I’m yours,” he said. “You hear me?”

Your voice cracked. “Yeah.”

He leaned in. “All yours, baby.”

You kissed him again before you turned to go, the girls already waiting at the airport’s entrance. There was so much ahead of you – the now what’s, the what if’s.

But right now, your heart was set right there in his hands.

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[phaideis-chimeras]

3.4? Angst? Naaaah, I only know fluff! So here, have a bit of of phaidei fluff to soothe the soul and forget about the pain.

--------

“After this is over, we should get married.”

Phainon never meant to say that out loud. The thought slipped out, just like that.

But now, the words are hanging in the air, met by… Silence.

After a few moments, Mydei props himself up from where he was lying on Phainon’s chest. He gives him a questioning look.

“You want to marry me?”

Phainon shrugs, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Maybe it was stupid to say that out loud. But he just can't let the idea go. It's the one wish he has for the future… That can't be stupid, right?

“I just want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He reaches out to cup Mydei's cheek. “I want to wake up next to you every day like this.” Mydei leans into his touch and closes his eyes, gently humming.

“You already do that, silly.” He slightly turns his head to kiss the palm of Phainon's hand.

“But if marriage is what you want, then I will happily agree.”

Phainon tilts his head a little. He looks at Mydei, trying to determine what he's thinking. “If marriage isn't for you… We can just keep living like this, of course.” He lets out a small, nervous chuckle, hoping it doesn't sound too disappointed. “I'll be happy as long as I can live my life by your side, really.”

Mydei contemplates for a bit. He shrugs.

“I never really thought about it before. I have you with me every day already. And I know that I love you and you love me. I don't need a special ceremony for that.” He leans in and kisses Phainon's nose, pressing their forehead’s against each other. He smiles down at Phainon, his expression full of love. “But the more I think about it, the more I like the idea. Phainon, my husband… It sounds good, doesn't it?”

Just hearing the words come from Mydei's mouth makes Phainon's heart skip a beat. Mydei's husband. He's giddy just thinking about it.

He smiles and runs a hand through Mydei's hair. “See? I knew you’d get the appeal.” He chuckles and kisses Mydei's cheek. “It's settled then. When the Flame Chase is over, we're getting married.”

Mydei looks at him, a gentle smile on his lips. “Why wait for that long? We could go to Aglaea tomorrow and ask her to officiate for us… Ask the others to join if you want. I don't need a big ceremony. You are the only person I need with me.”

Phainon can't help but laugh. It's rare to hear Mydei speak with so much excitement. His calm, somewhat reserved demeanor seems to have melted away.

“For someone who didn't even think about marriage just a few minutes ago, you're quite eager to get it done immediately.”

Mydei blushes a little and pouts. “You are the one who put the idea into my head, now you're mocking me?” He huffs.

Phainon lets out a hearty laugh. He wraps his arms around Mydei to pull him into a hug, repeatedly kissing his cheek.

“I'm not mocking you, Mydei. I'm happy you like the idea that much… And of course, I'd love to get married to you immediately.”

Mydei huffs and buries his face into Phainon's neck. “Good,” he grumbles.

Phainon chuckles and ruffles his hair.

His laughter dies a little and he solemly looks up at the ceiling.

“You know, I said that earlier because I was thinking about things to look forward to. Something to keep fighting for.” He let's out a small sigh.

“So what will I look forward to?”

Mydei looks up at him and scoffs as if the answer is obvious. “Your life with me, of course.” He pulls Phainon into a kiss and holds him close. Phainon rests his head against Mydei's chest.

“I will make sure every single day is something you can look forward to.” He can feel Mydei's hand gently stroke his hair.

Phainon smiles and closes his eyes. “I know you will. You always do. You are the future worth fighting for. And I swear I will fight for you.”

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Kalim Al-Asim - Room Relaxation Vignette

"Happy Birthday"

[Courtyard]

Kalim: Hmm, he's not here, either. Oh! Perfect timing… Heeey, Sebek!

Sebek: Kalim-senpai? Is there something you need of me?

Kalim: Have you seen Silver? Our professor asked me to go grab him, but I can't find him anywhere.

Sebek: …Why are you asking me? I'd think he's still in the cafeteria.

Kalim: Oooh, the cafeteria, huh! I don't normally go there, so I didn't even think to look there.

Kalim: Thanks for letting me know. As thanks, you're invited to my party. Come by Scarabia after classes tomorrow!

Sebek: Don't just carry on by yourself! I have plans tomorrow after school. If you truly wish to invite me, pick another date.

Kalim: Noooo, we can't pick another date! Tomorrow's my birthday, so we're going all out for the party.

Kalim: I'm letting everyone I run into know to come. We're gonna have a blast, chowin' down, singing, and dancing all together!

Sebek: I BELIEVE I'VE ALREADY MENTIONED I HAVE PLANS! Listen when someone else is speaking, why don't you? Goodbye.

Kalim: Looks like I got rejected～ …Ah, right. I have to go look for Silver. To the cafeteria!

[Scarabia Dorm]

Kalim: Everyone here? Alright, I'll pass along the info now.

Kalim: Oh, but… What was I supposed to talk about, again? Ahahah, I completely forgot everything!

[Jamil passes Kalim a note]

Kalim: Hm? What's up, Jamil? Oh, you wrote everything down for me!

Kalim: Uhh, let me see… "Renovation Notice"

Kalim: Looks like they're doing some repairs on old pillars and walls around campus. You can check the map posted in the lounge for the specific locations!

Kalim: What's next…? Oh, this is for the sophomores. The History of Magic report needs to be turned in by the end of next week…?

Kalim: Ah, now I remember! I'd promised Jamil that I'd start working on it tonight.

Kalim: I got a great idea! All the sophomores should get together and carve out some time to work on the report. That'll help us all make pretty good progress, don'tcha think?

Kalim: We should totally do it toni… Huh? Tomorrow's party is keeping you busy? Okay, then we should all get together tomorrow!

[Scarabia Dorm – Kalim's Room]

Kalim: Mmmm, today was so much fun! …HUH!?

Kalim: My room's filled with boxes! There wasn't anything here before I went for my shower…

Kalim: Oh, looks like my birthday presents got delivered. My family sent me a buncha stuff this year too～

Kalim: For now, I should just try to enter my room. Gotta make sure I don't step on any of the presents…

Kalim: Oh, hey, Carpet! You're offering to carry me into my room? You're so nice, thanks!

[Scarabia Dorm – Kalim's Room]

Kalim: Let's crack open these presents! Hm, which one should I start with?

Kalim: Ooh, you like that one with the red wrapping, Carpet? Alright, wait one sec, I'll open that first.

[rustle, rustle]

Kalim: It's a hairbrush. Oh, what's it say here…? "This was handcrafted piece-by-piece with specially selected materials by skilled craftsmen."

Kalim: "Only three of this exquisite hairbrush is made each year. Please have a luxurious experience with this."

Kalim: I don't really get it, but this all means this brush is pretty neat, huh. …Hm? You like this, Carpet?

Kalim: Okay, then I'll use this to give you a brushing today! Come here and lay on the ground for me.

[brush, brush]

Kalim: How is it? Ahahah, great! Feels good, huh?

Kalim: Oh, yeah. Let me give you a good scrub so you can look good for tomorrow's party too.

Kalim: A HAVEN WITHIN THE HOT HANDS, A NEVER-ENDING FEAST. SING! DANCE! OASIS MAKER!

[SPLAAAASH!!]

Kalim: Oops, sorry! I put a little too much into it. But now I need you to stay still, so I can brush you.

Kalim: Normal carpets tend to get fuzzy when brushed, or damaged when wet, y'know…

Kalim: But in your case, not only are you totally fine with all that, but you even have a few favorite brushes. You're a funny little thing!

[carpet shakes water off]

Kalim: Wah! Hey, I told ya not to move～ I was trying not to let it get everywhere, and now me and my room's soaked!

Kalim: Hmm, it's be great if my balcony was a bit bigger. …Oh, yeah! I think I had it over here on my desk…

「Survey on Quality of Life Improvements for the Student Body」

Kalim: I could just write on here, "I want a bigger balcony," and turn it in, right?

Kalim: That way we can splash around in water, or lay out under the sun. That's right, you think it's a great idea too, right?

Kalim: Maybe it could be the size of a classroom… Nah, that'd be too small to throw a party on, so I guess it'd be better to be the size of a gym.

Kalim: I wonder when they'll get started on making it? Can't wait to hear back from the Headmage～!

Kalim: Alright, we'll finish up with a quick blow-dry… Actually wait, can I use magic to dry you off today?

Kalim: Don't worry, I've actually gotten a bit better recently. Just watch～ …Hyah!

[casts wind magic]

Kalim: See, right as rain… WAAH!? All the wrapping paper is flying towards me…!

[casts magic to stop paper]

Kalim: …Huh? I just wanted to stop the wrapping paper from heading this way, but it looks like I stopped the wind, too.

Kalim: Looks like I didn't get the spells right today, too… I guess I'll just use a dryer to finish up.

Kalim: It's fine. Today might've been a fail, but I'll keep trying my best to get better!

[Scarabia Dorm – Kalim's Room]

[alarm rings]

Kalim: Nnn…Urgh… What's that noise? I'm still sleepy… Just 5 more minutes…

Kalim: Ah! Wait, I was totally planning to wake up and get ready on my own today 'cause it's my birthday!

Kalim: I'll just grab my hairband, and… Alright, I'm ready to go. Onwards to the washroom!

[Scarabia Dorm – Washroom]

Kalim: Good morning, everyone! Hm? What's up, why are you all looking so surprised?

Kalim: It's my birthday today, right? I set my alarm and woke up all by myself. I can get myself ready today, too.

Kalim: First, I'll wash my face. Urgh, the water is so cold… I'm feeling wide awake now…!

Kalim: Huh? Hot water'll come out if I do this? Woah, I didn't know～ Thanks for telling me.

Kalim: Okay, next I'll do my makeup. …Hm? Skin care? Mmm, I didn't bring any with me today, so I'll just skip it.

Kalim: Right, so makeup… Wait, what am I supposed to start with again? I'm so used to having everything prepared for me.

[students clamor]

Kalim: Meh, I'll just pick something at rand… Eh, you're gonna let me use your moisturizer and milk lotion? 'Cause you're afraid of what could happen later?

Kalim: Oh, you're such a worrywart～ But, thanks. Then I'll try using it.

Kalim: …Oooh, my skin feels so springy now!

Kalim: Okay, so now, I'll finally do my make… Hm? I should apply this foundation to my skin first? And then this next…? Okay.

Kalim: I can work on my eyeshadow, finally. What should I choose today…? This one? Hmmm, is this a little too boring to wear on my birthday?

Kalim: Oh yeah, I'll pick this one! A sibling sent it to me as a birthday gift.

[students clamor]

Kalim: What's wrong, why are you guys all startled? …Huuuh, I didn't know it was a big-name brand.

Kalim: It really is pretty and sparkly. I really like it.

Kalim: I wonder what it's made of. …Oh, it's fine powder made from highly valuable magestones?

[Kalim hugs Scarabia student]

Kalim: Woooah… …You know a ton of stuff, huh!

Kalim: I gotta put out a letter thanking them for this awesome present.

Kalim: Ummm, so I'll pick this color on top of this one, and… How's it look? Sparkly and good, right? Great!

Kalim: All that's left is for me to put balm on my lips and I'm done! Okay, guys, I'm heading back to my room. You all should quickly finish getting ready… Hm!?

Kalim: Oh nooo, my hair's got serious bedhead! What am I supposed to do fix my hair?

[Jamil rushes in and exclaims in panic]

Kalim: Oh hey, Jamil! Yep, I woke up all on my own today. And my makeup's all done thanks to everyone's help. Didn't I do great?

Kalim: But, uh… I'm beggin' you! Can you fix my hair～?

[Main Street]

Kalim: Heeeey, Sebek! You free after classes today?

Sebek: …We already had this conversation yesterday, Kalim-senpai.

Kalim: Oh, did we? Aw man, I was really hoping you'd come to my birthday party, though, Sebek.

Sebek: I-If you're that insistent… I guess I could give you a word or two, at least. Happy Birthday, Kalim-senpai.

Kalim: Thank you, Sebek! I feel like today's gonna be the best, just hearing you say that!

Requested by Anonymous.

[adoringaffliction]

Mascara Part. 3

Rafe Cameron X Naive!Reader

"It's too bad… it's too bad you're married... to me."

Series Warnings: Manipulation to the highest degree, toxic!rafe, naive!reader, reader just wants love bro, other warnings to come…

Series Summary: Rafe's in a bad situation and needs a way out, and his ticket to his generational wealth comes in the form of a shy naive girl that would make the perfect trophy wife. Rafe just needs to whip her into shape, that's all. 

MDNI +18

1, 2, 3

The First Red flag 

As the sun started going down she looked at her phone. It was a couple hours before she needed to be back at the hotel, but she wanted to make up for being late. 

“Hey Rafe,” she said to grab his attention.

“Yeah sweetheart?” 

Y/n blushed,”Can you take me home soon?” 

“Yeah of course, I’ll see you later guys.” He said his goodbyes to his friends and walked them out. 

“We didn’t have to leave right now,” she explained. 

“I know I just want to get you back in time,” he stated. He took her hand in his and led them out to the car. 

On the way over she spoke up,”Hey Rafe?” He hummed in acknowledgment. “Who’s Amy?” 

He stopped mid stride and looked at her,”How do you know about Amy?” 

“I- um-,” she spoke lowly. “I heard some girls in the bathroom talking about you and her.” 

He took his other hand and drug it down his face. He groaned but then asked,”You know the girl I was talking about this morning?” 

“The one that liked the backseat lovers?” she questioned. 

“Yeah. That would be her.” 

“Oh.” 

“We went out for a little bit and she can’t seem to let go of it.” 

“Got it,” she stated monotonously. 

“You don’t have to worry about it.” 

“I’m not,” she looked up at him and gave him a half smile. 

When they got to the car he opened her door and she got in. They pulled out of the lot not soon after. As Rafe drove her back to the hotel she stared out of the window. 

“I’m going home tomorrow, I forgot to tell you,” she said, still looking out of the window. 

Rafe let out a haggard breath,”Oh.” 

“So um, I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again,” she laughed nervously, fighting back tears. 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Rafe, whatever this little weekend fling was,” she turned to look at him. “It’s over now.”

“No it’s not.” He looked dead ahead, not meeting her eyes. “This was not a fling 

y/n. You’re not walking away from me.” 

“I didn’t say I wanted to Rafe, but you and I both know that this can’t work realistically.” 

“What else did those girls say when you were in the bathroom?” 

“Nothing,” she stammered.

“What else did they say y/n?” 

The tears were flowing freely now. How did she even find herself here? “They said I wasn’t the type of girl you usually went for.”

“Y/n, if I didn’t like the way you look I would’ve never talked to you.” 

She paused for a moment and then replied,“I agree with them, Rafe. I don’t know why you decided to talk to me, I’m not really model material.” 

“God, don’t be fucking stupid y/n.” 

“I’m not being stupid Rafe. I’m being realistic.” 

“Okay you wanna be a realist? The reality here is that you’re not leaving this. You’re not leaving me. Got it?” 

He finally met her eyes. There was something crazed in them. It scared her. “Okay Rafe.” 

He let go of a breath he was holding,”Now let’s get you something to eat before I get you back to the hotel, aight?” 

“Sounds good,” she mumbled. Something in her gut told her that she’d made a mistake somewhere. 

After they got takeout Rafe took her back to the hotel. Her dad opened the door for her and she said goodbye to Rafe. He gave her a kiss on the forehead.

“Y/d/n, can I talk to you real quick?” Rafe asked. 

Her dad perked up,”Sure.” 

Rafe looked at her and smiled. She smiled back at him and made her way back into the room leaving them in the hallway. 

It was a decent amount of time before her dad came back in alone. 

“He really likes you,” her dad stated. 

“Oh yeah?” she questioned. “What makes you say that?”

“He’s flying you back out here in a couple of weeks for spring break.” 

She paused. Processing what her dad was saying. 

“Oh. Great,” she replied with a smile. Something about this afternoon made her want to tell her dad she didn’t want to come back, but she didn’t. Because Rafe liked her right? No guy had ever liked y/n like Rafe did. He hadn’t done anything to make her think badly of him. Everything was going to be fine. She was going to get to see him again. 

tag list: @faephoria ur the only one so far, which makes you special, congrats lmao

[peasack]

I was listening to let down and that one part "one day I am gonna grow wings" come on and I thought, how'd it be to have wings?

So I ofc had to write about it.

Thunderbolts x Gn!Teen!Reader

✦ Thunderbolts with a winged reader Headcanons ✦

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

✦ Bucky Barnes

Conflicted admiration. At first, he’d just stare, arms crossed, trying to act unaffected, but deep down he’s like “Damn, those are actually kinda beautiful.”

Super protective. The second anyone stares at your wings for too long, especially with bad intentions, Bucky’s stepping in. “You got somethin’ to say?”

Secretly fascinated. He’d never ask, but you’d catch him subtly glancing when you stretch or preen them.

Very gentle. When you’re injured or someone tugs on your wings, Bucky’s the first to crouch next to you, carefully checking them like “Hey, let me see. Careful, kid. You can trust me.”

Grumpy feather picker. Occasionally finds one of your shed feathers and keeps them. Won't explain why. He just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it back.”

✦ Alexei Shostakov

Full-blown dad mode. He’s IMMEDIATELY obsessed. “My child is an ANGEL. Literally! You see? Perfect! Glorious!”

Annoying wing toucher. Always wants to ruffle your feathers or test if you can actually fly. “Come on, just jump from the couch. I’ll catch you!”

Brags about you nonstop. To strangers. To teammates. To villains. “You think you're tough? My kid has WINGS!”

Soft moments. He would help you care for them—cleaning, oiling them if needed, brushing them gently while humming off-key.

Compares you to pigeons and then quickly says he’s joking (he’s not). “But you are a very beautiful pigeon, my little one.”

✦ Ava Starr

Deadpan, but lowkey impressed. “So you’re a flying liability now? Great.” But secretly? She’s in awe.

Protects you quietly. Makes sure no one dares touch or pull your wings. If they try? She phases through them and scares the hell out of them.

Helps you adapt. She’d be the first to help you learn how to move in small spaces or sneak around without your wings getting caught.

Soft glances. Catches you struggling to fold your wings properly and silently helps without making a big deal about it.

Gives you feather care tips like it’s mission briefings. She 100% researched it for you.

✦ Yelena Belova

Absolutely chaotic about it. “Okay but can you FLY? If you cannot fly, then I will be very disappointed in you, little angel.”

Constantly teases. Calls you “pigeon,” “winged menace,” “flight risk,” but she says it with so much affection it’s painful.

Helps you style around your wings. “You cannot just wear hoodies all the time. You need slits, you need jackets that fit your… situation.”

Will physically fight people who try to touch them without permission.

Finds stray feathers in weird places. She collects them and teases you like “You’re shedding. I think you are becoming bald.”

✦ John Walker

Dad energy cranked to 100. “Whoa, kid. That’s… actually kinda cool.”

Super worried about you getting injured. Checks your wings every time you get home. “Does it hurt when you move them like that? Lemme see.”

Proud but awkward. Sometimes says dumb things like “My kid could outfly your kid.”

Doesn’t understand wing care. Will clumsily help you clean or check them but acts like it’s a military operation.

Buys you huge jackets to “protect” your wings even though they look absolutely ridiculous.

✦ Bob Reynolds

So chill but also obsessed. Like he acts normal but inside he’s like “That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Big on consent. Won’t touch your wings without asking, ever. Always makes sure you’re comfortable first.

Wants to help you fly better. Will train with you, pace you while you run and flap to get liftoff. “You’re getting close! Let’s try again tomorrow.”

Carries a feather you shed in his wallet. When you ask why, he just shrugs. “For good luck.”

Doesn’t care about the mess. You can shed feathers all over his car, his room, the training mat. He’ll never complain.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Hope yall enjoyed!! Requests are open<33

[mrkizen]

peach

pairing: sister’sbf!eunseok x fem!reader

wc: 1801..

cw: noncon, infidelity, age-gap (reader is 18), coercing, unprotected sex, loss of virginity.

eunseok as your older sister’s boyfriend who visits quite often, your mom, fairly content with his presence.

it’s late june, you’re out in the backyard, tanning with your best friend while scrolling on your phone. your coral and pink bathing suit, warm from the sun, molded to your skin, a second damp layer. 

your older sister sits on the couch with eunseok watching tv, cuddled up to him despite the heat. although you were old enough to be left without supervision, she was visiting so you didn’t mind too much. 

 your best friend sighs, turning her phone off. “can we get in the pool now?” she asks. your eyes flickered to your still-pale thighs, a silent negotiation playing out in your mind. but it wouldn’t matter too much, you could just come back out tomorrow. the UV shouldn’t be too different tomorrow. 

“sure, let’s get in!” you smile, placing your phone on your beach towel. without hesitation, the resounding crash of her hitting the water leaves droplets scattered across the patio like flung pearls. you dove after her, the sudden chill of the water chasing away the lingering summer heat from your body. 

the sudden sound of laughter, broke your sister’s gaze from the tv to the two of you. eunseok’s gaze followed, a faint, unreadable smile touching his lips as you splashed.“i miss times like that.” your sister says, smiling at your enjoyment. eunseok nips at his bottom lip. 

“we could always go to the beach when we go back home?” he proposed. her face, which had been relaxed, suddenly lit up. 

“you’re so right, we definitely have to before the summer is over.” 

-

night time settles in, your best friend is long gone, but you’re still in your bathing suit—too lazy to remove it and shower. the crisp air of the fridge hits your face as you open it, looking for a snack. you search up and down the fridge, a bag of grapes in the fruit drawer catching your eye. crouching down, you grab the bag out the fridge to place them on the counter. 

you straightened up, only for a solid form to block your light, his presence suddenly unnerving, his eyes leveled with yours. 

“oh shit!” you breathed, your heart already thumping in your chest. your feet, almost on their own, pulled you away from him, instinctively seeking a safe distance of the cupboard, where bowls were kept. 

“what are you doing?” he asked, voice too light, too innocent. you felt his gaze, heavy and unsettling, as he languidly leaned against the refrigerator. you didn’t even turn your head, “grabbing a bowl,” you drawled out, letting the words with sweetness that soured in your mouth, “so i can eat grapes.” 

“let me get some.” he said, his low voice filling the quiet kitchen.

you focused on the sudden burst each grape made as you plucked it off the vine. but before you could even register the quiet rustle of clothes, eunseok was there, too close, too invasive. his presence, suddenly a suffocating heat. his hand unexpectedly and invasively slid along the sensitive curve of your back, lingering just a moment too long. 

“what—i can’t touch you now? i'm your brother.”

a rigid stillness settled over you. your spine straightened, and your brows drew together, taking in his words. 

“exactly.” you state, the single steel-cold barrier between you. eunseok bites at the inside of his cheek, then, in a sudden, jarring motion his hands were on your hips. gripping tightly, and you were spun around to confront him fully.. your mouth, suddenly dry, turning down at the corners. your brown eyes, unblinking, fixed on his, a coldness behind them. “this bathing suit looks so good on you.” eunseok compliments, taking his hand and smoothing it over your hair. 

you felt trapped, stuck between a 24 year old man who you distinctly saw as your brother. “eunseok get the fuck away from me.” you spit out, grabbing his hand placed on your head. his expression switched from this alluring, sweet façade to an ugly demeanor. 

you knew you made him angry. the way his jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek, the pleasant glint in his eye vanished, replaced by a sudden chilling flatness.

eunseok shoves your hand away, twisting your wrist in his grip. hard. and behind your back. 

“no.”

the last expression you see on his face was an earth-shattering smile, his warmth coming into contact with your skin, the taste of chlorine coating his lips. you shudder, balling your fists tight, knowing if you were to scream your sister would come rushing down the stairs. but how would you convince her that you didn’t provoke him in the first place?

his kissing intensified, the sensation of his teeth skimming your skin making your flesh raise with bumps. the words you yearned to say, stuck. eunseok could easily shut you up if he wanted to, so it was best to stay quiet. he frees your wrist, letting it travel down your back to the waistband of your swim bottoms.

the damp fabric of swim bottoms offered a fleeting, fragile barrier. but it was useless, his hand, hot, a brutal weight to it, dug into the soft flesh of your lower back, fingers gouging into your skin, even as his teeth grazed your neck. a guttural sound drew from you, a strangled shriek that felt ripped from your core. your hands, trembling but desperate, clawed at the rough fabric of his khaki shorts, gripping with great strength. 

his hand clamped down, a firm, brutal hold on your ass, his middle finger violating a probe, beginning to trace the unwelcome arousal that seeped, hot and shameful, from your core.. “sure you don’t want this?” he murmured, the sickly warmth of his breath coating the shell of your ear. you were paralyzed with dread. this was it. the nightmare. something you prayed away. the one your  sister tried to protect you from–only now, the monster was her soon-to-be fiancé. 

his fingers continued their insidious exploration, the slickness on them a grotesque guide toward his harrowing intentions. your eyes burned, with unshed grief, finally betrayed you; hot, fat tears, unstoppable. “awe baby, don’t cry.” he consoles, wiping your tears harshly with his thumb. you jerked your head away from his touch–something you were still able to control. “come on pretty, take my fingers…you know you want it.” the way the words flowed out his mouth, made him so enticing. but you’d never fall for it. not for a menacing creature like that. 

a cry tore from your throat, his fingers forced their way, wedged in between your walls, too wide, too rough. the vibrations of his groans against your face, stiffened every muscle in your body. “eunseok..” the name was a bare whisper. a desperate plea.. his fingers repeated the motions you’d done to yourself repeatedly. but this was different. when you did it to yourself, it was an act of quiet, private pleasure. no warmth, no release. only the cold crushing weight of violation and a sickening surge of fear and repulse.

 “s’fucking tight,” he grunted, the words hot against your ear, “wonder how you’d feel around my cock.” he rammed into you, pumping faster, a fistful of your auburn hair yanked tight in his grip. your head smashed against the cold marble countertop, a sharp blinding pain exploding behind your eyes. you cried out, hands scrabbling against the unforgiving surface, desperate for it to anchor you. 

 the harsh sound of his zipper, whisper of khaki fabric dropping to the ground pierced the suffocating silence, screaming at you to just run away from it all. but your mind flashed with possibilities: two figures frozen in this kitchen; his hand swift and unhesitating, snatching a knife; the cold blade plunging deep between your shoulder blades, right into your spine. 

the blunt tip of his cock lies perfectly between your folds, right before your deepness. your throat constricted, the salvia in your throat is coarse and thick, almost impossible to swallow. every muscle in your body screams in protest as he forces himself to fit inside of your small frame. your press-on nails screech against the marble, your knees knocking inwards. the arousal secreted from your walls around his cock, was only a bodily response. a desperate mantra, even as he continued to boast about how much you–he–needed this.

‘better than your sister. should’ve fucked you when i first laid eyes on you.” the cruelty of those last words ‘first laid eyes on you’ made something knot into a cold, hard stone.. five years. five years you'd seen him as a brother. how could those ear-piercingly, vile words come from him ? eunseok increased his pace, grunts following every thrust, his hand winding into your locks, using it to grind your head into the cold marble with every violent push. small noises emitted from you, but by now you were so frozen, even your vocab was. the tears couldn’t stop, and neither could your moans. 

“stop, please…please. eunseok.” your pleads came out in short breaths, as his thrusts became relentless.  eunseok chuckled, admiring the tiny, pure body–a body he now utterly controlled. “don’t wanna wake your sister, do you?” he taunts, yanking your head up to meet his gaze. you glare into his cold eyes, scared to detach them from his gaze. eunseok plants a kiss on your lips, once, twice, and even a third time. demanding a response you couldn’t give. “come on now,” his lips brushing yours, “i know you’ve wanted to kiss me at least once. now's your chance.” *eunseok smashed his lips against yours, you involuntarily pressing back onto him. the kiss is rough and leaves you gasping for air against your saliva coated lips. 

“such a pretty girl.” eunseok compliments, his rhythm slowing, dragging out the agony. your pussy responded to him, the feeling of his orgasm reaching. “gonna cum in this pretty sweet pussy of yours.” your eyes frantic and wide, darting around the kitchen, the sun finally dipping below the horizon. you hadn’t even noticed.

as he incessantly grazed in and out of you, your surroundings dissolved once again. your head recoiled against the countertop as he unraveled his hand from your hair, hands finding your waist, a familiar anchor. eunseok bucked his pelvis into your hips, holding his grunts in his mouth. and then, the hot, viscous flow of his seed. you swore you could feel it coursing through your veins, a searing venom. the foul taste of semen– you never knew–somehow coated your throat. a broken sob poured from your lips. a shuddering mess in his hold.

there was nothing left. no anchor, no flicker of self to cling to. every last shard of you had been ripped away, scattered, and forever lost. 

[lush-escape]

The Vigilante's Guide to Grief

pairing: Jason Todd x f!reader wc: 1.2k a/n: I'm getting just a little 🤏 burnt out with this fic but also there's only one more chapter and I'm lowkey kinda sad about it prev: depression next: acceptance

Stage six: Testing

Hey babe

It's June 15. It's been three months today since I started therapy. I'm still going semi consistently. Christy says I've got a long way to go. Doesn't surprise me. I'm so fucked up that I'm sure an entire life's worth of therapy wouldn't even begin to scratch the surface. She said I'm doing alright though, said she can already see improvements. Apparently I don't say fuck as much as I used to or tell her how stupid her job is, how pointless it is. So maybe she's right. Getting into the routine of it though was horrible. Fitting appointments into everyday life, having a new person constantly in my life knowing everything about me. It was terrifying if I'm being honest. Kinda like when you moved in

Jason taps the end of his pen against his notebook and smiles to himself. He can't even remember the last time he actually smiled when he thought about you, a smile that didn't end in tears. It had been months now.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You ask Jason as you look around the bedroom confused. Your first few days living together were… rough. Finding space for all of the things you brought over, not wanting to get in the way while Jason insisted he would make room for your things no matter what.

Now he was staring at you, clothes and towel in your hands, like you had just told him to his face that he was adopted.

“What are you doing?” He answers your question with one of his own.

“Showering…” you answer him almost skeptically, not you're not sure if that's what he wants to hear or not.

“You shower first thing in the morning? We just woke up.”

“I mean… yeah? Is that a problem?” Where is this going, you thought.

“Okay well, I like to y'know… go to the bathroom first thing in the morning.”

You blink once and then again, “Can't it wait?”

“No.” He states simply.

“Okay well I'm not going to shower after you bomb the toilet.”

Jason barks out a laugh, “I'm not going to bomb it.”

“Don't lie!” You smile at his laugh, “I'll be fifteen minutes, okay? I promise I won't be long.” You're slowly inching your way towards the bathroom.

Jason's hand is on the blanket as he slowly uncovers himself. He looks like a predator ready to jump on its prey. You stand still, adrenaline pumping through your veins.

“Jay…” you tell him quietly, cautiously. A soft warning to not even think about what he's doing.

“Yeah, baby?” He smirks as he slowly climbs off the bed.

“Don't do it.” You know he's faster than you, stronger than you. You know he'll make it to the bathroom before you and you're sure he'd have no qualms about pushing you out of the way.

“Not doin’ nothin’, baby.” His smirk turns wicked.

You make a break for the bathroom. It's not even sixty feet away but you can hear Jason's feet catching up behind you.

With an adrenaline filled laugh you manage to get into the bathroom before Jason, slamming the door shut behind you just as his hands reach it.

“Oh come on!” Jason laughs as he slaps one palm against the wooden door.

“Guess your poop is gonna have to wait!” You sing song from the other side with a laugh.

“This ain't over,” He threatens, you can hear the smile in his voice. “I'll wake up before you tomorrow.”

You ignore him with a victorious smile and start your shower.

You're out not even twenty minutes later and open the bathroom door to the smell of fresh coffee. You smile warmly at the pleasant scent.

“Mm, coffee.” You hum, walking further through the apartment to the kitchen. Jason's leaning his hip against the counter taking a sip from his mug.

“Got you a cup.” He motions to the white mug next to him.

“Thanks, babe.” You smile and take the warm cup. “I'll make breakfast.” You tell him.

“Breakfast?”

“Yes. Breakfast.” You laugh softly. He acts like he's never heard the word before.

“I don't usually eat breakfast.” He mumbles.

You knew that already, but actually living with him and experiencing it for yourself? No way.

“Well, you do now.” You busy yourself around the kitchen.

“I can get used to this.” He smiles.

Okay. That's a lie.

Jason smiles to himself again.

You moving in was probably the best thing to ever happen to me. Even with all of the bumps we faced. Getting used to each other's routines and making new ones. I was never happier….

“I don't want to do this… I won't do this.” Jason stares at his phone with a shaking hand. He was a wreck. He can't remember the last time he ate. Some insane, or what he thought was some insane, part of him was ready to push the dial button on his phone. Telling him to reach out, that he needs help.

He stares at the therapist's card that Bruce had given him, the one he handed to him just weeks ago and said “when you're ready, chum”.

Talking about it with a therapist made it more real. Made it a fact that you were gone and he was struggling and needed help.

But he knows he can't continue on the way he was. Being angry, blaming himself, withdrawing away from his family. His heart pounds in his chest, he was more than nervous to make the call. He was scared.

He dialed, taking the plunge.

His appointment was two weeks later and was far different than what he was expecting. When Jason imagined therapists he imagined stuffy, holier than thou, old people. Not the woman with dyed hair, piercings, and tattoos sitting in front of him.

“So Jason,” Christy smiles warmly, “what made you decide to reach out?”

I hate getting used to everything without you. Some days I don't think about the fact I don't have to race to the bathroom first thing in the morning. Other days it's harder getting out of bed in the morning knowing you aren't here to whine at me. For a long time I stopped eating breakfast because you weren't there to cook for us. I started again and it's horrible. Who likes cooking that early in the morning? You're psychotic.

Jason lets out an amused huff through his nose and runs his hand through his hair.

I miss you. She was right. Christy. Writing to you is getting easier. She suggested getting a new hobby too. I told her I read but she said it needs to be something we didn't do together. That way I'm not thinking of you the entire time. But I don't know. Maybe she'll be right about that too. I told Dick maybe I'll start drawing like Damian. Steph suggested getting into tattooing. Imagine that huh.

Jason hums in thought for a moment.

Maybe I can start writing. Write a book or something. Guess we'll see.

taglist: @thy-crimson-king @vellichor01 @theendofthematerialgworl @tinasdcstuff @4rachn3 @cecebookworm @eva-ngelionn

[leislibrary]

[skz] how they accidentally reveal your relationship

pairing: hyung line x reader genre: fluff, angst (if you squint) wc: 2.2k, between 400 - 700 each

Chan - on a live stream

Chan's eyelids droop as he reads more comments on his live stream. He could not count the amount of hours that passed since he last slept. Yesterday? Two days ago? He lost track. Still, he sits in front of the blinking red light, recording live content for STAY before he finally goes to sleep. 

“Someone said ‘nice bracelet’,” he reads aloud from his phone screen - having to pause to stifle a yawn. The comment makes him grin, remembering how you recently gifted it to him when he was trying to spoil you. “Thank you, you know, Y/N got it for me on our last trip.” 

His blood freezes the second the words leave his lips. He fucked up. 

Your relationship is not public. Well, rather, it was not public. You both wish to keep that part of your lives private, seeing as so much is already exposed to his fanbase. 

Any triage he can do falls short on his lips as he reads comments pouring in, asking who Y/N is, demanding an explanation, and already speculating that Chan has a partner. Chan’s heartbeat quickens and his mind races. He tries to think of something that would make him still appear cool, and like he wasn’t currently freaking out over saying your name so intimately for everyone to hear. If he spoke, anything he said would just be over-analyzed and posted everywhere. So, he did quite possibly the worst thing he could do. 

He ends the live without saying another word. 

His shaking hands open his phone app to call you, but you beat him to it. Your name appears on his screen. You must have been watching. You must have also seen the comments afterwards. He takes a deep breath and presses Accept. 

You’re silent on the other end. “Do you think anyone heard?” He tries to lighten the mood, believing you’re upset with him for exposing your relationship so carelessly. 

Instead, you surprise him. “Are you okay?” Your voice is full of concern. “You looked like you aged about 20 years in four seconds. I don’t think I’ve ever seen your eyes that wide before.” 

“You’re not mad? I mean everyone knows now, it’s just a matter of time before they find out it’s you, I pretty much just ruined whatever privacy we ha-”

“Hey,” you cut him off, “none of that. No talking badly about yourself. Yes, I’m sure we’ll have to address it soon, but there’s nothing we can do to change what’s already happened. Whatever happens from now on, we will still have each other. Honestly, I’m kind of glad the secret’s out. We can go on real dates now, instead of practically wearing costumes just to grab coffee.” 

Chan knows he is incredibly lucky to have you. One of many reasons he loves you is for your ability to talk him down when he overthinks. He eventually falls asleep on the phone with you, listening to you reassure him that you guys will figure out whatever tomorrow brings. 

Minho - on stage

Management expressed concerns about Stray Kids collaborating with you on your newest single. The higher-ups claimed that with your smaller fan base, the release might not be worth the time taken away from the group working on their own comeback. Of course, they were actually concerned about fans uncovering yours and Minho’s relationship, but they could not officially say that seeing as you have not officially told them anything. It’s an open secret within JYPE, but you two still deny it any time the subject comes up. 

The single reached the highest number of pre-orders you’d ever had. Downloads of all your songs, not just the collaboration, skyrocketed on release day. It seemed like your boyfriend’s group almost did more for your career than JYPE, your own label. 

Currently, the nine of you are at your third promotion event together. This is an informal performance/Q&A session (mainly for Stray Kids, let’s be honest) held near the label’s building, but your heart still swells at seeing everyone who came out to support the song. 

You stand in front of a small sea of audience members, taking a moment to admire their reactions to the performance. Behind you, Felix kicks off the Q&A portion of the event, calling on a fan with their hand raised and passing them a microphone. “Hi, I was wondering, what was the songwriting process like?” They ask, nerves evident in their voice. 

A presence approaches. Minho strides over to your location on stage, ultimately positioning to brush his shoulder against yours. It’s the kind of casual affection nobody would ever think twice about - if this was one of his concerts, and if you were one of his members. 

“Be careful,” you whisper to him, trying not to let the audience catch on to the fact that there’s anything to catch on to. 

He smirks in return. “Always.” 

Four questions pass, and you finally get one aimed for you specifically. You are describing the creative vision for your upcoming album. At some point Minho gravitates over to you again. As you speak, growing excitement radiates off the crowd, “ - I’m so proud of this one and I cannot wait for you to hear it!” 

Your smile widens as resulting cheers ensue. You worked so hard for this moment, and to finally start to see the fruits of your labor fills you with joy. Minho’s gentle hand on your back causes you to meet his eyes. He is already staring at you as if you are the only person in the world. 

Minho did, in fact, forget that you two are on stage. His love for you overwhelms him - he is so honored that you let him share this moment with you. Without thinking, he caresses your cheek, pulls you in, and kisses you. 

Your breath hitches. 

Maybe nobody noticed. Maybe not a single person in the crowd was looking at you or Minho right at that moment. 

The hush that sweeps the audience slashes your delusions. The overwhelming noise a moment later shoots straight into your heart. Yet, you don’t regret it. Minho’s expression mirrors your emotions. Shocked yet happy. 

Han notices what just happened and tries his best to get the crowd under control. Unfortunately, his idea was to sweep past it by continuing with the Q&A. “Alright! Does anyone else have a question for us?” The crowd goes crazy for the second time in five minutes.

Changbin - SKZ-Talker

A strong knock reverberates through yours and Changbin’s hotel room. 

“Mgrhnmm,” Changbin so eloquently mumbles, still 80% asleep after his post-concert adrenaline crash. The urgent knock sounds again. You peel yourself away from him and pad over to the door, adjusting your pajama set so you don’t look as rumpled when you swing it open. 

Chan stands there, staring at his laptop screen, eyebrows furled in either annoyance or concern. Or both. 

“Is Changbin here?” he asks. 

“Chan, I respect the creative process, but it’s three in the morning. Your work will still be there in the morning. Please let him sleep,” you respond, your usual wariness to speak to Chan like that replaced by your actual weariness. 

A flicker of confusion drifts through his eyes. “No, that’s not it. You haven’t seen?” He steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. Changbin’s eyes flutter open at the sound of your conversation. You waste no time falling back into the cozy bedding.

Chan takes a seat at the desk, angling the laptop so you two can see it from your positions. The latest SKZ-Talker is paused on screen, Seungmin’s face frozen as he talks to the camera lens. 

“What’s this about hyung?” Changbin asks, finally sitting up now that it’s evident Chan will be staying a while. 

“Yeah, I mean I know Seungmin’s pretty,” you chime in, choosing to ignore Changbin’s nod of agreement, “but why are you showing us this?”

“Look.” Chan points to a spot over Seungmin’s shoulder. “Is that or is that not you two kissing?” 

Oh. Oh no. 

He’s right. With the angle Seungmin’s holding the camera, viewers can see straight down the hallway Changbin was using to warm up. And there’s you, pressing a kiss to his lips as encouragement before he goes on stage. Your stomach drops. 

You barely process Chan’s continued talking. “It’s not as bad as it could be. It’s a split second, the editors must have missed it. I’ll show you,” he rewinds the video a couple seconds and presses play. You two aren’t even on screen anymore. Seungmin’s voice fills the room as he walks through the venue’s hallways. Then, there it is. He shifts his hand, and over his shoulder, the camera captures Changbin leaning into you, smiling as you kiss him. The scene disappears behind a wall as Seungmin keeps walking. 

“Most people haven’t even noticed it. But -” Chan pauses. “But there are already some comments recognizing Changbin. They don’t know who you are,” he looks at you. The “yet” remains unspoken. 

Changbin curses. “Can we delete the video? Edit that part out? Something?”

Your vision tunnels on the screen. How could you be so careless? You knew they were filming a SKZ-Talker that day. You know how easily idols have dating rumors, you should have been more careful. Changbin’s going to have a scandal once Dispatch gets their hands on this. 

Changbin’s hands on your shoulders bring you back to reality. “You okay, princess?”

Your stunned nod tells him you’re not okay. 

“Look at me. Nobody’s mad at you for kissing me,” he brushes some hair out of your face, “I’m especially not mad at you for kissing me. In fact, I think you should do it more often.” His smile mirrors your small grin at his words.

“Yeah. But -” Chan pauses for the second time that night. “Our manager does want to get ahead of this. He’s requesting to discuss it with you now.” Chan notices your shoulders slump. “He doesn’t seem upset. Just stressed.” 

“Okay. Yeah. We’ll head over there,” Changbin replies. Chan nods and quietly slips out of the room. 

Changbin pulls you into him. “I’ve got you,” he whispers, the sound slightly muffled by where his mouth meets the top of your head. “Let me do most of the talking, yeah? We’ll be okay.”

You pull away, his arms dropping to still rest on your waist. “We should probably get going.” Your legs slightly shake as you stand to walk towards the exit. Changbin grabs your hand, his strong grip anchoring you into him. 

Hyunjin - through an Instagram post

Hyunjin fills his house with artwork scattered everywhere. It adorns his walls, his tables, his life. He makes sure no pictures of the two of you are visible through any mirror selfies - your own fans would recognize you, and he’d have a hard time explaining why a photostrip of him kissing you exists. 

Hyunjin’s most recent photo dump is doing unusually well. He smiles as he recalls the memories attached to each picture. He reviewed each photo before posting, but for the first time, he notices that one of your paintings is in the background of one of his selfies. 

The painting that you had posted on your story two days ago when you finished it.

The painting that detail-oriented STAYS and fans of yours are now asking questions about. 

Does the art in the third slide look similar to Y/N’s from a couple days ago??  omg that’s Y/N’s painting!!!!! she said she loved that painting and now it’s in hyunjin’s room?? are they together?? 

Hyunjin’s thumb scrolls down the comments, nitpicking anything mentioning you. You two don’t even follow each other to dissuade any notion of familiarity. Now, it’s snowballing, more and more people catching on when they read previous comments. 

wait whos Y/N???? his gf apparently!!

Hyunjin deletes the whole post. His notifications show an uptick of comments on his previous photo. Fuck. Your Instagram is the same: a growing number of comments asking about your relationship status under pictures of a completely unrelated photoshoot. Fuck. 

He needs to tell you himself before you are bombarded on social media. He texts So we might have to come forward about us sooner than planned. Like right now. 

Your name lights up his phone screen. Fuck. He accepts the call, and immediately launches into a not-dramatic-at-all explanation of how his love for his favorite artist in the whole world exposed your relationship, and really this is your fault if you think about it, because you created the painting in the first place, and you should have known he would love it so much.  

You’re silent until he finally pauses to take a breath. Then, your quiet laughter fills his ears. “I mean, I figured something like this would happen eventually, pabo.”

“You’re not mad?”

“No, love.” 

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Hyunjin can finally breathe again. An idea springs to his mind. “We NEED to have the best official launch photos!! Can I paint us?”

[annyeongffs]

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫. || 𝖍.𝖏𝖘 (ᴍ)

𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎: 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐞.

<< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫. || 𝙣𝙖𝙫𝙞. || 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩. >>

✶ . ⋆ 𝒐𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒕: "𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦" (𝘴𝘬𝘻) ⋆ . ✶

𝐰𝐜: 7.4𝚔

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳! 𝘩𝘢𝘯 X 𝘧𝘦𝘮. 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘶, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘪’𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯, 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘮𝘶𝘵𝘶��𝘭 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯.

𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫: 𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵.

you don't know how you're still breathing after a night like that.

but here you are — wide awake, staring at your phone like it holds the answers to the universe. you're sitting upright in bed, body still buzzing, heart still racing, screen lighting up your face like a stage spotlight; you've been staring at your open text thread with han for the last five minutes, patient. waiting.

and there they are. those three little bubbles. han jisung is texting you back.

text from: han(dsome) still thinking about that look on your face tonight.

how you kept biting your lip like you didn't know i was watching.

your pulse flutters, your body sighing his name without words. your thighs squeeze tight beneath your sheets in betrayal of your visceral want, desire outweighing all other trains of thought. your reply takes much longer than necessary to type because you're overthinking every letter.

you: i didn't think you saw me.

...i was trying not to make it obvious.

those three dots resurface almost instantly, making you catch your breath in surprise. you knew he was into you, sure. but he's so quick, so thorough, so completely involved in this; and you never expected that from him. from a rockstar, no less. your phone buzzes in your hand when his texts comes in.

text from: han(dsome) you failed. beautifully.

i'm playing again tomorrow. same time, same place.

backstage pass has your name on it.

come early for me, please? i want to see you before the lights hit.

you swallow hard. you've never agreed to anything faster in your life, fingers flying over the keyboard as your will finally lines up with your want. you hit send before you can second-guess yourself, knowing that the decision was inevitable- the pull to him is too strong for you to say anything but yes.

you:

i'll be there.

text from: han(dsome)

good.

don't wear that skirt again- i won't survive it a second time.

you grin wildly, muffling a laugh into your warm palm. you knew you looked damn good in that skirt. feeling like playing, you write back just as quickly:

you:

what if i want to? it's my favorite skirt. it goes with everything.

the three bubbles are back hardly a nanosecond after hitting send; he's just as obsessed, just as into this. into you. and oh, he plays so well.

text from: han(dsome)

not with my sanity it doesn't.

i can't make any promises if you show up in it again.

smirking now, you reply faster than you ever thought possible, your witty banter only raising the pressure rolling off the screen between you.

you:

maybe i don't want you to make any promises.

maybe i want you to break them.

with that, you power off your screen and let your head hit the pillow, satisfied with your message. it wasn't a lie- you wanted, and you wanted badly. and now it was clear: he wanted you, too.

you slip into a deep sleep littered with steamy dreams and imaginary sighs with the sweet relief that tomorrow, you'll find out what he's finally going to do about it.

-

the next night, you show up early.

same place, same room, same stage; the weather cooperates this time, but you're down to a party of one when you walk through the venue doors into the main auditorium.

rosie texted you earlier- feverish, apologetic, begging to still come. the rain last night got to her, and she called you sniffling, trying to get you to let her tag along through coughs once you recounted some of last night's events to her. you told her not to risk it; you'll tell her everything, anyways. she reluctantly agreed on the condition that she rejoins you for another show the second she's feeling better.

"besides," you told her when she worried about how you'd handle being alone in the crowd, "i won't be alone. not really."

but now, surrounded by other concert-goers who came pouring in only minutes after your intentionally timed arrival, you feel the isolation just a little.

it's a small hurt, though- smoothed over by the knowledge that backstage, someone's thinking of you.

your phone chimes with a text. unlocking it instantly, you feel some of the unease leeching from your body when you see who it's from.

text from: han(dsome)

i'll be on stage soon. will i see your face in the crowd?

you grin to yourself, feeling like a schoolgirl with a secret to keep as you type back instantaneously.

you:

yes. i'll be right up front, waiting for you.

break a leg!

you add that last text as an afterthought, wanting to wish him luck before his performance. you go to pocket your phone, but it buzzes in quick succession, drawing your attention right back to the screen where han's last messages wait to be read.

text from: han(dsome)

what a good girl, waiting for me like that.

thanks sweetheart- but i'll be breaking more than that tonight… you'll know i'm playing for your ears only.

your stomach swoops at that casual praise as you turn your phone off with an exhilarated shiver, knowing he's not just talk; dying for the show to run fast so you can see him, touch him, maybe even taste him.

screen black and heartbeat loud, you slide it into your bag and look up- just in time to see the house lights dim. the crowd howls. people crush forward toward the barricade, making you press right up against the cold metal railings that do nothing to calm the fire crackling to life inside of you.

the room pulses, a living, breathing thing- electric and thick with sweat, and heat, and haze. plumes of smoke pour from the stage wings, the same sultry red as last night. only now it's laced with something darker. thicker. filthier. a promise, maybe; a dark suggestion of things to come.

your stomach flips. your thighs clench, mouth going dry when the stage lights come to life, red beams chasing themselves across the empty stage.

it's starting.

just like last night, changbin and chan are the first two to take the stage; crowd going ballistic, shit-eating grins on their faces, instruments at the ready for them to play another life-altering set. the excitement pumps itself directly into your veins until you, too, are buzzing with anticipation.

and then he walks onstage like he owns the concept of sin. han jisung. the man who won you in a single night without ever trying, the man who wooed you with nothing more than a song; the man whose very soul calls out to your own in a frenzied dance of need and electric power.

he's dressed to devastate tonight. black on black, those drool-inducing muscles wrapped in midnight leather, straining against the fabric like they're begging to be set free. loose curls wild at his forehead like he clawed a hand through them right before stepping into the light; some of them dropping down to barely conceal his dark eyes, flashing with heat and ignition like an engine ready to catch fire and burn.

that maroon guitar is slung low across his chest; his jaw is sharp, his smile sharper.

you can't hear your own thoughts. only bass. only beat. only him.

he takes up every inch of your mind, holding it captive without even glancing your way. his neck is on display tonight, a deep v-lined tank adorning his body, spelling trouble. you think you catch a glimpse of delicious ink lining the skin of one pec- but it's gone before you can really be sure.

he doesn't greet the crowd tonight. doesn't wave. doesn't ask for attention at all; and yet, it's being lavished on him. by everyone, of course; but especially by you. you're spellbound. his head stays lowered as he approaches the mic- and god, the crowd screams- but you don't scream.

you can't. any and all air has been stolen from you, replaced only by han. han. han. you can't think straight, can't move, can't speak; not unless you want this entire venue to hear you scream his name. because right now? that's all you know.

your whole body locks, bracing for impact. he looks like more than a man tonight- tonight, he looks like a fuse about to blow, sending you and everything in your wake up in flames when he does.

when he finally lifts his head and opens his eyes, they cut through the smoke like blades. those captivating eyes are gleaming with predatory intent, flickering dangerously in the stage lights as he scans the crowd, gaze zipping from one side to the other like he's frantically searching for his favorite sin.

and then he finds you. the moment his eyes land on you, you cease to see anything else. you're done. gone. finished.

his full lips part into a vicious smile; it isn't warm, isn't inviting in the usual sense- it's inviting you to play. the smirk that overtakes his achingly handsome features is something filthy, something possessive; something you feel in your bloodstream. it's a silent statement: tonight is for you. you feel it in his gaze, even moreso in the curl of his lips.

your own mouth tugs upwards just slightly, as if in answer to his unspoken call; a private smile, just for him. in it, you attempt to tell him: i'm watching. i know.

you're pretty sure he gets the message.

and then he lifts his guitar. the first note hits — and you come apart at the seams; floating weightlessly in his orbit, helpless to do anything but watch, anything but listen, anything but want.

the sound rips through you, drips down your spine. it's meaner tonight, dominating the stage with its reverb, caressing you with intangible hands tracing your skin. it's almost too much; heavy, heady, sticky with distortion and swagger and words meant to be moaned into pillows.

his vocals tonight are almost orgasmic. his voice is low, much lower than last night. the words leaking out of him are syrup-thick with sex and raw emotion. every lyric sounds like a secret he wants to fuck into your throat, every note he utters borders on a sigh, on a promise to deliver. he moans- actually moans- through a line halfway through the first verse, and the girls next to you audibly gasp. one of them grabs the barricade like she's going to topple over.

you don't blame her for falling; you already are. your mind isn't just chanting his name- it's praying. praying to whatever god created him that he'll unleash himself on you when the performance is said and done.

but for now, the show must go on: he shifts his stance during the chorus- wide-legged, bracing, like he's either about to solo or destroy a life. maybe yours. and when he throws his head back to sing, his tank catches, that v-line tugging down just an inch too low.

you don't breathe.

not when the ink flashes at the junction of his right shoulder. not when the crowd collectively loses its mind, and yours is yanked right out of reality to land in a realm of dangerous, desperate thoughts. a realm of unholy fantasy and sheer need.

he looks down at you again. oh, he knows exactly what he's doing; you'd bet money he did that on purpose, putting himself on display for you like that. he licks his lips, spit glistening carnally in the concert lights, driving you wild with the desire to taste it for yourself- what sin and sensuality will feel like when it finally melts on your tongue.

he strums hard enough to make the speakers cry, every taut muscle rolling with the restraint painted across his face. he looks depraved; he looks like he's on the edge of doing something obscene, and a red-hot spike of delight runs through you when you realize you're the only one who knows why.

someone in the wings says something to changbin; the motion catches your eye. a shake of the head. a confused shrug. a what the fuck is he doing tonight? look.

you know the answer: he's playing for you.

and tonight, he's going to make sure you feel it everywhere. between your legs. in your soul. vibrating with the bass in your teeth. stretching his very existence to live in the parts of you that call his name in the dead of night- the desperate lover in you who craved him long before you knew the right name to cry out.

once more, you lock eyes from where you stand at the stage's edge. he doesn't let his gaze leave yours for the rest of the night after that.

every song that follows is soaked in sex, dripping with desire so sweet you could fall apart untouched with just the sound of his voice, singing those filthy things into your ear. as the night progresses, he lets that wicked smirk bloom like a bruise, deeper and darker than the ones his expression promises to press into your body when the show is over.

and you know, beyond a shadow of devious doubt: he's going to ruin you tonight. and he's going to take pleasure in watching you crack open under his branding touch.

when the tempo finally slows- dragged out like a tease, like he wants to make you cry for it, like the beat is what you'll be begging for- he strolls back to center stage, grips the mic stand, and says: "the show felt good tonight. you guys are fucking loud." he pauses, and the audience around you laughs collectively. "but one of you..." he pauses again- for dramatic effect? for lack of words? from awe? you're not sure.

he looks straight at you. "you're the reason my hands were shaking. you're my muse."

and then — he rips into the next track as the crowd erupts into screams of his name, echoing the voice inside you that's secretly been his all along. and you never recover.

–

the second the final note crashes through the speakers, the second jisung flashes that sweat-drenched, godless smirk and vanishes offstage- your body shatters.

sure, you're still standing. technically. but it feels like you just got dragged into hell, your own personal circle of it; one filled with torturous moans and imaginary kisses that leave marks across your soul in the waiting.

then comes the tap on your shoulder.

you turn, dazed, and a staff member nods politely. all calm professionalism while you're still convulsing internally, drunk on the show, high on the performance.

"jisung said to bring you backstage."

your stomach plummets, your pulse spikes, your knees buckle. you nod; because what else is there to do?

you follow them down a narrow hallway- lights flickering, walls vibrating with leftover reverb. your boots sound too loud. your skin's too hot, not sitting right over your bones, like nothing works without a certain touch. your blood isn't even in your veins anymore: it's in him.

the hallway bends. a final corner; and then —

the green room door.

the staff member points. doesn't touch it. maybe he's scared to?

regardless, he just says: "he's waiting for you."

you swallow, nodding sharply- you know exactly who 'he' is. the staff member exits abruptly, and you sigh deeply through your nose as you steady yourself, preparing to once again see your darkest dreams personified staring right back at you with a smirk that could slay giants.

you reach up to knock... but the door opens first. from the inside.

and han jisung is already there.

-

he's still glowing head to toe from stage light and sweat, his black tank damp against his chest, hair curling wild and rakish at his forehead. his voice is hoarse from singing- but much hoarser from restraint.

and his eyes? they burn. like you're the encore, and he's about to perform for his life.

"you showed up." he levels the observation in a honey-thick voice, emotion roiling off him in waves. you nod- what did he think you were going to do? bolt? not a chance.

"of course i did." it's no more than a whisper; airy, deceptively light, not a hint of the war waging beneath your skin for him.

he sticks his tongue in his cheek and steps a little closer, hands in his pockets like he's got all the time in the world. "been thinking about you all night," he says like it's nothing, "can't get you off my mind." he shuts the door with a soft click. the lock shudders with the action; your heart does too.

you decide to lay all your cards out on the table. "i can't stop thinking about you, either."

if his answering grin is anything to go off of, that pleases him immensely. he crosses the remaining distance between you in slow, agonizing steps, dragging the moment out like a song he refuses to end. his gaze travels down your body, deliberate and devastating, until it lands at your knees. and stays there.

his stare freezes like ice, smothering your senses into nothing but haze. his eyes are dark, sharp, hungry- and his jaw ticks once, betraying just how hard he's working to keep it together. a thrill zaps through your body like an electric shock, realizing that you're the one threatening to break his composure. and you're nothing short of smitten with the knowledge that you have this effect on him, too.

a low breath escapes him, barely audible, like it punched its way out. like it didn't have permission, and it'll pay for misbehaving.

his hands flex in his pockets. restraint incarnate, hanging only by a thread of sanity. "that fucking skirt," he mutters under his breath, almost like he didn't mean to say it out loud.

you smile coyly before you can even help yourself. "i told you it's my favorite," you tell him innocently, like you have no idea what he's talking about.

the tension crackles between you, electrifying and chemical; so strong that if you were to stick your hand out to cut through it, you'd get yourself burned. and you'd take him with you.

han drags a hand through his already-messy hair and lets it drop, stalking forward again until he closes the last few inches between you, your legs almost hitting the vanity table behind you. his hands don't touch you- not yet, soon- but they bracket your waist on the table, caging you in. leaving you no way out. no escape from this dangerous game.

but it's more than a game now. it always has been more.

"you were watching me," you breathe, voice thin as a wisp of smoke.

he huffs a laugh. "of course i was watching you. you were starving, sweetheart. practically coming apart for me right there at the edge of the stage. where the hell else am i supposed to look when you stare at me like i'm god?"

his hand finally finds your skin, and something in you begins to burn at his simple touch, his finger resting just at the hem of your top. he slides one knuckle upward, slow, dragging the fabric with it until his fingertips rest just beneath your bra. you suck in the breath that he's stolen from your lungs- and he hears it. he stops. teases you still; even now, when you're breathless and wanting, when he has you right where you should be.

you want his touch to go on so badly, you're about to shamelessly whimper for it. your eyes plead with him, wide and sparking with need; it's what he loves to see.

he leans in- almost the rest of the way- and then his mouth is so close you can feel the syllables on your jaw when he croons, "oh, y/n. you're not ready for what i want to do to you."

you shiver at the way your name rolls off his tongue; like something holy, something divine. it fills you with a confidence that peaks within your ribs, shocks your body, and spills out of your lips in a single bold confession: "i think i am."

you shouldn't have said that.

you meant it- but you shouldn't have said it.

because in one single sweat-soaked, glorious instant, your entire world tips over into nothing but heady delirium. his fingers tangle in your hair as he closes in for the kill; his body presses you into the table at your back, one thigh slipping between yours, and you gasp at the feeling like you've been shown heaven. or hell. you're not sure which one yet.

he groans low and broken against your jaw when he sees your desperation soar, when he feels you light up in response to him, back arching to press yourself closer than close. your mouths are separated by less than an inch, less than a whisper; his hands are gentle but sure in their conquest of you, sliding through your hair to trail a scorching path down the planes of your neck that you so willingly bare for him. an abandoned noise leaves you- and nearly sends han over the edge of his restraint.

"god, jisung." you pant breathlessly, a whine breaking loose that sounds like you've already come undone, "i can't bear it. just fucking kiss me already."

his hands slide down to your waist, trailing along your sides until he's hooking you closer, wrapping you up into his looming presence. he doesn't respond to your desperate plea; he doesn't need to. not with words.

his lips brush yours, soft at first- like he's testing the waters. you attempt to surge up to meet him, but he keeps you in limbo; lips touching but not quite connected, not quite a kiss just yet. he's teasing you- even now. you whine, the sound tearing from some primitive yearning deep inside your throat, and your reality shatters into a million pieces when han finally, finally captures your mouth with his.

the blaze is instant. it roars to life beneath your skin, singing his name in wild, unrelenting waves of heat as he claims you outright with nothing but his lips. you kiss him back like it's survival; like you'll die of starvation without him, like you were made only for this. only for him.

and han? he kisses you like he knows it. like he believes it. like he's been living in a drought, and your lips are the first thing that's ever tasted like rain. the only thing that could ever satisfy him. the only one who could ever know how to.

his grip on your waist tightens. not possessive- not yet- but needing. tugging. anchoring. like he might disintegrate into ash if he lets you go. you cling to his arms, red nails all but digging into the corded muscle there, drawing out the most orgasmic groan you've ever heard in your life; you do your best to keep up with the wild pace he sets, one hand winding itself tightly into his mess of curls and tugging. sharp. he grips your body harder and traces his tongue across your lower lip, dragging it in feverish question.

you open for him willingly, wantingly, and he licks into your mouth with abandon, tongues meeting in a frantic dance. he isn't just kissing you- he's claiming you, branding you, ruining you for any other kiss but his. he's all you know now; just him. just this. just more.

his mouth moves with yours in practiced precision that slowly, slowly begins to unravel. a drag of teeth. a gasp of breath. each breath is a little more frayed, a little more ragged, a little more drunk on want. it's the kind of kiss that breaks rhythm until it becomes a slow descent into madness, steadily turning into freefall.

he deepens the kiss slowly, achingly, like he wants to savor the exact second your knees go weak, to feel the very moment your mind gives out and your body takes over. his lips mold against yours like they've always belonged there, like this was fated, inevitable, a collision that was always going to end in fire. he was a fuse, you were a live wire- and now, you're detonating. setting off. scorching everything in your path, and leaving no survivors. you won't be walking away unscathed from this tonight.

you're already breathless, already dizzy, and he hasn't even truly moved. hasn't rushed. just this- this unbearable, exquisite press of his mouth to yours, lips parting and sliding and lingering, teeth clashing and tongues tangling like something painted in sin and poetry. you kiss him back as if you're trying to memorize it, like you're taking a piece of his soul out with every burning movement. like you're afraid he'll disappear if you stop. you want to leave your taste on his tongue and your breath in his lungs, and he wants to taste every inch of you without ever stopping for air.

there's no rhythm. no grace. only need; only hunger.

he tilts his head, angling deeper, and you whimper into him as your mouths slot together again- this time hotter, wetter, open and shameless. his teeth scrape lightly at your bottom lip and you gasp into him, arching further, pressing yourself into his body like you don't belong anywhere else. he swallows the sound like a shot of liquor.

your fingers twitch where they've fisted in his shirt, and you realize it's already wrinkled from your grip. he's barely made a move to touch the rest of you, and already, you're trembling. you're trying to keep up; you're not sure if it's your heart or his pounding in your chest, but you know there's a frantic rhythm pulsing in both of you that makes stopping impossible. unthinkable.

your lips are already swollen. you've forgotten where you are: all you know is this kiss. all you know is him.

and when he finally breaks for air, just barely- lips brushing yours still, breath fanning your skin like a secret- he doesn't speak. he just takes one look at you, at the mess you've become beneath his power, and groans like a man on the brink of losing touch with reality.

he dives right back in- like it pains him to do anything other than kiss you as if his life depends on it; devouring your mouth like pausing would undo him. like your kiss is a drug he's waited his whole damn life to taste, and now that he's had it, he'll claw through time and space to keep it.

you lose count of how long it goes on: minutes, hours, eternity. your lips are slick with spit and desperation, stinging with barely-restrained fire, tender from the unrelenting friction. but you don't care. you'd stay right here until your lungs give out.

until suddenly- he pulls back.

only a breath, only a fraction. you gasp at the loss, chasing his mouth as it leaves your own, but he doesn't give it back to you. not yet. instead, his eyes search your face like he's trying to memorize you in this moment: breathless, ruined, fucked out. all over a kiss- his kiss.

"fuck," he half-whispers, half-laughs. like a prayer. or a curse.

and then he's descending, lowering his mouth to your throat.

a helpless sound escapes you the moment you feel his kiss-slick lips against the delicate skin of your neck. you tilt your chin up instantly- a surrender, a sacrifice, a plea- and he doesn't hesitate to take your offering. his lips press heavy against you, hot and reverent just beneath your jaw, an open-mouthed kiss that melts straight into your bloodstream.

his hands stay exactly where they are, caging you into him- but his mouth? his mouth moves. he's absolutely everywhere, all at once. he kisses down the column of your neck like he's writing dirty love songs into your skin. like he's tasting every part of you he's dreamed about. he takes his time: slow. open-mouthed. filthy. and you fucking love it.

without warning, he finds the sweet spot between your neck and your ear, ghosting over it with a devious trail of his tongue before sucking a mark above your pulse- then kisses it gently like a silent apology. you twitch tangibly in his grasp as his tongue flicks at the base of your throat, and you moan out- low and broken- body arching into him like you've lost control of every muscle you've ever owned.

he groans in return, pants about a million sizes too tight, his breath ragged against your skin. "you have no idea," he rasps like he's treading water in a sea of insanity, "what you fucking do to me."

he noses along your neck, the action pushing you to slide your hands into his hair and grip on for dear life as he licks small circles into your sensitive skin, hot breath fanning your collarbone just enough to drive you mad.

you whimper under your breath as he sucks another mark- his mark- into your throat, soothing the erotic sting with another expert pass of his tongue. he does it again, and again, and again; until you're littered with love bites and tugging his hair like a woman gone insane, panting like you've run a race. he doesn't move fast- no, he's savoring you, drinking you up like he wants every last drop, and drinking you in like the night's just begun.

and god, it has.

you're already shaking. you don't even realize you're whispering his name like a late-night confession until he hums against your skin — low, dark, and dangerous.

"say it again," he murmurs. like it'll keep him sane. like it's the only thing tethering him to earth.

like you could say his name and he'll use eternity to ruin you slowly, sweetly, in a song only you were meant to hear.

you breathe it out again, drawing out the three letters. he jolts like he's been physically struck, eyes briefly rolling back as he lavishes his tongue across your skin. he's teasing, tantalizing, merciless with his exploration of your neck; he licks stripes from collarbone to ear, nibbling ever so slightly at the lobe, then kissing his way back down to scatter bites across your pulse points.

his hands begin to wander- not forward, never there, not yet- but backward, sliding up under your shirt, warm and greedy and yet reverent, all at once. his fingers, calloused from the rough strings of his guitar, stroke images of sin into your back and trace your spine like he's writing his name on it. like he's marking himself into the parts of you no one else has ever touched.

he finds the clasp of your bra. just finds it. holds there. a ghost of pressure; a threat of intent. but he doesn't undo it. doesn't even try to.

because of course he doesn't.

you can't help the long, obscene whimper of sheer frustration that claws its way forward out of you- he's too good at this. too in control. too drunk on the way you're already shaking for him, already gasping into his mouth like you'd let him take anything he wanted, and he knows it. knows it and devours it, lips never leaving your neck.

your fingers fist into his hair. you pull- hard. hard enough to make his hips jolt forward; enough to feel it just barely skirting over your skin, over nerves so hot and taut that you don't know how to behave. god, you feel him. every inch. every hard, aching truth he's been hiding behind dirty lyrics and darker looks and erotic, unspoken promises etched in smoke.

a pornographic moan breaks loose from you, weaving itself into the charged air. and suddenly his mouth gets messy.

the kisses he leaves on your skin morphs into something sloppier. wetter. louder. it's all spit and groaning and wild, clashing lips now. no more teasing. no more waiting- he's everywhere. you're pulling at his belt like something's breaking apart inside you- not to take it off, not yet, just to feel it give beneath your hand. to feel something snap. to feel him snap.

han's hips surge forward again, this time not by accident. you moan his name again- or maybe he moans yours. maybe both. it doesn't matter. nothing matters now except mouth and skin and friction, and more, more, more.

his fingers dig into your back as his mouth drags deliciously up the entire expanse of your neck, leaving trails of slick in his wake, before he takes your lips in his own once more, swallowing every pitiful sound escaping you.

his teeth graze your lower lip, the faintest ghost of a bite, then he soothes it with his tongue, just like he did with your neck. he does it again- rougher this time. like he wants to mark you with every part of him. like he'll crumble into madness if he doesn't merge his very soul with yours.

he breaks the kiss only to breathe; but even that's a lie. he doesn't pull back. he doesn't move away. he just pants against your cheek, against your jaw, dragging his lips across your skin like he misses you in real time.

"fucking hell, y/n" he rasps, breath hot, mouth still open against you, the sound of your name falling from him like that turning you on like nothing has ever done before. "you taste like something i've been chasing in my dreams. you taste like ecstasy."

you're only capable of giving him a broken whimper as his hands slide lower, just barely. he goes to grip your hips like a man unhinged. you shift in his hold; grinding, ever so slightly. chasing the friction like he's chaos, like he's the only thing holding you together. and it feels like worship. it feels like something dirty disguised as divine intervention.

the table behind you shakes. your thighs ache. your lungs burn.

still, it isn't enough. not for either of you.

and that's when he does it.

with one arm still around your waist, he spins you toward the vanity mirror at your back. one hand lifts your chin, capturing it like a silken vice and forcing you to look. to gaze upon the destruction he's caused, the mess left of you in his current.

"look at you, baby." his voice is low and wrecked, pulsing with the need that radiates from both of you like heat off pavement on a scorching sunny day. you obey and glance into the mirror, and your lungs stop short at the sight that greets you.

it's you and han. entangled hopelessly, devoutly, sinfully; unsure where one of you ends and the other begins.

your lips are smeared red, glistening from his mouth and smudged with your lipstick. his curls are rugged and wild from what felt like hours of having your hands in it; your face is flushed, his shirt is half-untucked and belt hanging precariously off of his slender waist, and both sets of eyes are gleaming with barely-restrained desire.

you nearly come undone right there. han opens his mouth to nibble at your ear as you continue staring, inhaling sharply like he's about to say something.

but then-

there's a voice in the hallway. melodic laughter. a quick knock at the door- and jisung freezes. you feel his whole body tense behind you. his mouth brushes your ear again.

he sighs, like this interruption pains him to the ends of the earth, and unwinds his hands from around your body. you frown at the loss of contact, barely holding yourself back from grabbing his hands and putting them right back on you where they belonged.

he turns you gently back around, stroking your jaw delicately with the back of his knuckles, like any other kind of touch would set him off again. you chase his mouth; he doesn't kiss you. he pulls back instead, and you'd complain if it weren't for the restraint etched into each line of his handsome face, devastating willpower on display. he brushes your hair out of your eyes gently, reverently; like he didn't just almost ruin you.

"you deserve better than a backstage quickie," he murmurs regretfully, kissing the skin just above your ear with an aching tenderness. "i want to hear you fall apart somewhere you can scream."

you nod as if no words could ever do, breathless. wrecked. waiting.

once he's sure you've been appeased- for now, at least- he reaches for the couch only a few paces away, grabs the black band tee he wore before changing into his onstage ensemble, and holds it out to you like an offering; like a gift of mercy.

"wear this home." he says simply, like he isn't about to give you the most sensual and meaningful memento of all time. he throws you a half-smile, still rueful with regret over not wrecking you properly, and adds, "it smells like me. wear it to bed tonight for me, yeah?"

you pull it over your head with shaking hands. he watches your every move, devouring. but he doesn't touch. doesn't kiss. just looks with this devastating mix of lust and care, stopping himself from coming back into your personal space to kiss you goodnight. because he knows it won't end with just 'goodnight'.

"tomorrow," he says- and you see it in his eyes, the resolve forming. it's a caress of a whisper; it's a promise. you nod shakily, still not trusting yourself to do anything more than beg if you were to open your mouth right now. "i've got another backstage pass with your name all over it." you smile despite your ruined bubble of intimacy, feeling just a little hopeful that it won't stay wrecked forever.

"and sweetheart?" he adds, voice stretching over you like silk before he walks out to see who knocked on the door, "wear something i can rip. something you'll let me tear off of you with my teeth."

and then he's gone. you're still standing there in his clothes, his mouth all over you, his voice running down your spine like static electricity.

and it's not enough. you know it now; tonight has solidified that from this moment on, nothing will ever do but him. han jisung. and he took his sweet time making sure of it.

-

you never took it off. you're sitting in your sheets wearing his tee and little else, body unbelievably warm. the top still smells like him: like smoke, and sweat, and sin. it drapes over your thighs like a secret. it sticks to your chest like a brand.

you lie back in your bed, staring at the ceiling as if he's somehow hiding up there, legs shifting under the sheets, mind nowhere near sleep. your phone buzzes.

you don't need to look- you already know who it is.

text from: han(dsome)

still picturing the way you looked in my shirt.

i swear, you'll be the death of me.

you bite your lip- just a reflex. involuntary. filthy.

you:

i can't stop thinking about earlier.

three dots appear. pause. vanish. then they return, dropping a message with enough force to knock the breath from you.

text from: han(dsome)

you touch yourself yet?

you nearly drop the phone as your body flares to life. your fingers twitch over the keyboard, already run away with the desire to do what he's asking if you've done- for you. for him. you inhale, breath nothing but a shaky shallow sound. the air you receive from it is not enough.

your teeth tease your lower lip as you mull over what on earth to say to that. you haven't done it yet. but oh, you want to; and you want him to know. you want to tease yourself while you wear his clothes and fall apart with his name on your lips.

so you don't answer with words. you send a photo instead. you sprawl out across your silky sheets, spreading your bare legs out in invitation as you drag your hand down the length of the tee, rumpling it up until it pools in a way that just conceals where you'll fall apart if he so much as looks. turning on your flash, you snap the picture, hand laying intentionally over the tee.

you:

(attachment: one image)

mm, was going to.

but i think i need some instruction.

three dots. they appear and vanish again, and again, and again. your heart tries to beat its way out of your chest. then your phone buzzes repeatedly, his messages coming in one right after the other, sending you spiraling into delirium with his explicit instructions.

text from: han(dsome)

god, i need those thighs shaking around my head. you want instructions, baby? you got them.

start with one finger. under the shirt. slow.

don't take it off.

make your way down your body, right to where you need me most.

and pretend it's my hand on you. my fingers touching you. my direction for you to fall apart.

i want you coming in my clothes.

you try- really, you do.

your hand slips under the tee, drags itself down your body slowly, sensually. your fingers reach and press down further, until you reach the one part of you that aches. you move them in slow, devastating circles. you arch. gasp. grind.

but it isn't him.

it's not his voice in your ear, not his breath on your neck; not his hand pinning you down or his tongue flicking cruelly over your skin. it just isn't him.

you try again. harder. slower. begging your own body, pleading with yourself for release under his guidance. you fist the shirt at your stomach. you moan into the dark- his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer, like a chant.

but nothing. no release. no end. just sultry, miserable ache.

frustration twists in your chest. you blink against the sting of tears, because it's almost right- almost. but it isn't han jisung.

and he's the only thing that will ever work now.

your phone buzzes again, forgotten on your pillow, chiming one last time.

text from: han(dsome)

you're coming tomorrow.

that wasn't a question.

you stare at the screen, heart leaping into your throat. hand still trembling between your legs, working yourself ragged. you type the only thing that feels true as sigh after shaky sigh leaves you into the charged night air.

you:

i'll be there.

tossing your phone somewhere in the depths of your bedsheets, your fingers work yourself faster, harder, circling tighter and tighter, trying desperately to get yourself to that peak. but it never mounts high enough- never crests into bliss; no matter what you do, what you imagine, it never lives up to the feeling of han jisung in the flesh. and your body knows it. it won't let you finish if he isn't in the room.

you let out a long, frustrated whine, flinging yourself back onto your pillow and staring longingly at the ceiling of your dark bedroom- as if somehow, you can will him into existence, right here in your bedroom, to finish the unraveling he started in you two nights ago.

—

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